


Falling Through The Ice

by athaclena



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Anxiety Attacks, Bottom Dean, Coming Out, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shower Sex, alternate universe - figure skating, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athaclena/pseuds/athaclena
Summary: Dean's finally retired from the Dallas Stars, and he's back at his original home ice-rink for a publicity stunt for his autobiography. Problem is, he has to do something that terrifies him. Second problem is, he has to do it in front of the man he was best friends with as a kid, until the ice cracked under him and he was left on the wrong side of an increasingly large chasm.A story about smashing expectations (and some pumpkins), what it means to be brave, and how to follow your heart. Also, smut.





	1. Terrible Ideas and Publicity Stunts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JupiterJames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JupiterJames/gifts).



> Warning for specific homophobic language (as a quote), discussions of homophobia, descriptions of injuries, mentions of plastic surgery, and anxiety attacks.
> 
> I write the most cheerful stories ever and I regret none of it.
> 
> For [JupiterJames](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiter_james/pseuds/jupiter_james), who inspired this. I learned how to spell salchow properly! Also, how to write smut!

This is a terrible idea. Nothing good can come of this. His teeth are on edge and his knuckles are doing that weird fizzing thing they do when they want to make a fist.

But Cain had asked him so nicely, and he owes the old bastard, and he needs some good PR, apparently. And, well, the other thing.

Dean bends over and laces his boots stiffly. Too early in the morning for his bad joints to have warmed up; his trick knee is playing up, his ankles are screaming inside their bandages, and his hands are sore.

The smell of the locker room brings back too many memories and he's not happy about most of them.

He walks out to the edge of the rink and sinks down on a bench to stretch out his muscles carefully. He doesn't have easy access to the fancy (and wildly expensive) massage therapists any more, if he fucks himself up today he'll be paying for it for a week or more. His gear is all stashed on the edge of the ice waiting for him.

This is a terrible idea.

The noise of blades cutting the ice alerts him to the fact that he's not alone. A lone figure cutting across smooth clean ice, skating so perfectly and beautifully Dean is helpless to do anything but watch. The man – it's him, of course, but Dean doesn't want to name him, not yet – gets faster and more precise, somehow, over a series of spins and a set sequence Dean recognises from two Olympics ago.

Then he throws a quad, a salchow Dean thinks, and lands it effortlessly, back leg swinging around in a perfect smooth arc to balance his weight and shit, this was a fucking terrible idea. Fuck. He's gotta get it together. There are going to be other people here soon.

He stands up and catches the eye of the man, who nods slightly and retreats to the other end. Ice rinks are huge, much bigger that they look on TV, and there's plenty of space for them both to warm up. Dean does a couple easy laps, a few squats and lunges, skates backwards for a while, refamiliarises himself. He tries not to look at his co-skater.

The door bangs loudly and Dean startles violently and nearly falls, god he hates this, this was a terrible idea, why is he here, and he clings onto the barrier like a noob and breathes through his adrenaline rush. No need for that now. Not now. Not any more. He's retired, and his dad's dead, and Walker's dead, and he doesn't need to fight or fly.

Nausea comes in the aftermath and he fumbles for a glucose tablet to top up his blood sugar. His fingers are clumsy and cold, and the packet falls to the ice. He hisses a curse.

Long fingers covered in thin black gloves pick up the awful things and hand them to him. “Here.” The voice, Jesus, as deep and gravelly in person as it is on screen, and there he is: Castiel Novak, multiple Olympic gold medal winner, talking to him for the first time in fifteen years.

Fuck.

“Thanks,” he mutters, hands shaking on the tablets as he finally gets the packet open and gets one into his mouth. Cas – Novak, he lost the right to call him by name years ago – watches him warily. “You want one? I got bad, uh, homoeostasis I think they call it. They taste like crap but they give you an energy boost.”

A curious smile crosses Novak's lips, pale and chapped from the cold, and he takes one delicately. “Thank you.”

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, congrats on the medal wins. You were amazing at the Olympics five years ago. I didn't get a chance to tell you then, but you were... really incredible, dude.”

Novak's mouth hangs open a little in shock, glucose tablet melting on his tongue. “Uh,” he says, then stalls.

Dean smiles tightly. “You don't need to say anything. I'm not.... It's okay if you hate me. I would.” He looks around and sees that the competition winners and journalists are all here, judging by Cain's frantic gesturing. “We got a job to do, come on.” He pushes himself off and bites the inside of his lip hard; the taste of blood and the smell of the ice help him channel his sportsman persona, and he needs that right now.

Novak follows him after a second; Dean clearly hasn't lost the ability to place people on the ice by ear, even after all these quiet months. His shrink would probably say it was the instinct of a scared child who had learned how to keep himself as safe as possible. He just knew it had won him a silver five years ago, and made him the most feared captain on the ice in North America.

A lot of nervous-but-excited looking kids are arranged in front of him, parents behind them, and behind them a few select reporters.

Awesome. This wouldn't be hard at all.

Novak drifts to a stop beside him. They make a striking contrast in opposites, for all there are only a couple of inches of height between them. Novak is dark and lean, olive skin warm against the black of his closely-fitted and no doubt very breathable clothes. He has a brace on one wrist Dean hadn't noticed before, must be working through some injury. Dean is blond and fair, pale with winter and the chill in his heart, broad-shouldered and thickly muscled, wearing padded pants and a thick hoodie, hiding the strapping on his bad joints under his clothes.

Dean watches the adults through hooded eyes as Cain gives the competition winners some welcome spiel. The parents are mostly mothers, but there are a fair few fathers in there, all wearing either a Stars top or the more diplomatic USA team sweater, except one guy who's standing far away from the hockey dads. Some of them sneer a little when Novak is introduced. Super. Jocks.

Of the journalists, he recognises Bela Talbot with a concealed wince, and oh god, Marv the Perv is here too. A few seats to the side he sees Charlie sitting next to a thin lanky blond man who must be Novak's publicist. Charlie catches his eye and shoots him a thumbs-up. She's better prepared for today than he is. She better be, anyway, otherwise he's dead on the ice.

This was a terrible idea. He fake smiles to the crowd. “So, like Cain said, Q&A first before you all get your skates on and come join us on the rink!” He gives the kids a genuine smile. “We got all your questions written down here, and we'll answer 'em all, don't worry. If we're confused we'll ask you to clarify. The reporters up back might try to get more answers from us as well, but they've been warned not to, today's about you, not them, okay?”

The kids smile and cheer a little, and a couple of the journalists look sour, but fuck 'em, this is for the kids. He gives Novak the question list and ghosts a wink at him. “How does it feel to land a quadruple triple combination? Does it make your ankles hurt?” He mugs being confused for the little kids, before slapping his forehead and swapping the papers. “Gotta ask the right guy!”

Novak has a smile on his face; Dean can't tell if it's sincere or not. It was a shitty joke, but the best he has right now. “It feels like flying,” he says. “And when you land, you're always a little afraid, because you might fall. But that makes it better when you get it right. It only hurts if you do it wrong, which is why practice is very important. Thank you for the question, Mykaela.”

“How did it feel to beat the Russians at the Olympics?” Dean reads out. “From Antony. Well, it felt pretty good. Winning always feels good. The Russian team was really strong, they were the favourites to win that year, so it was really awesome to be able to out-play them. They're a really good bunch of guys though, we met up after the finals and hung out together for a while and traded stories.” A PR stunt, but it was still true. “Uh, thanks for the question, Antony.”

Novak's turn. “Why did you decide to turn professional instead of winning more medals? From Maria. Well, mainly because I got old,” he says frankly. “Ice skaters have a short career lifespan on the competition circuit, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to keep up with the younger guys any more, so I wouldn't have been able to win any more medals anyway. As a professional, I can keep on skating, but I don't have the pressure of performing at the very limits of what my body can do. I'm actually planning on retiring from the professional scene as well soon, so I can start coaching children like you. Thank you for the question, Maria.”

“Okay, sticking with the theme, why did you decide to quit the Stars and do you miss it?” Dean shoots a glance at Charlie and she nods encouragingly. “I didn't quit as much as I was asked to leave,” he says, rubbing the back on his neck. “The management thought I wasn't the best fit any more. So I guess what you also wanna know is why didn't I change to another team, right Logan?”

The kid nods. Okay then. “Honestly, I was tired of all of the crap – uh, sorry – that goes along with hockey. Being followed around by paps – paparazzi – trying to get me to punch them by shouting horrible things, being held up as an example of how not to be a good role-model, all of the pressure from the sponsors. I was even tired of playing hockey most of the time, because I have a lot of sore places from old injuries, and I'm getting old too. Me and Cas here are the same age. There's only so long you can be at the top of your game for before your body says no.

“As to whether I miss it, I miss my team-mates, and I miss the rush you get from the crowd screaming for you, but I don't miss any of the rest of it, really. Sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear. Great question, though.” Logan actually looks pretty happy just to have been spoken to, but some of the dads are looking disappointed, and the journalists are typing frantically.

Novak has been watching him the whole time with his head tilted quizzically. “Alright, me again. When did you first want to become an ice skater? From Natassja. I must have been younger than all of you are now when I first knew I wanted it. I was watching the Winter Olympics with my mom and I thought all of the ice skaters looked incredible, and I wanted to be able to do that. I think I was five or six. I bugged my mom about it for weeks until she sent me along here for lessons. Just basic ones at the start, and then I went into the ice dance classes.”

Dean treacherous lips twitch into a smile and he finds himself speaking. “Yeah, we were on the same beginners course. Kept falling over each other and mucking about. Pretty sure if you dig through the ice deep enough you'll find my first lost tooth from this jerk knocking me on my ass so he could win a race.”

“It was loose, it would have come out anyway,” Novak replies with a full grin, eyes crinkling and perfect teeth showing. He'd said exactly the same thing at the time, too, the little shit. Dean snorts and shakes his head. “Thank you for the question, Natassja, and I hope you're more careful with your teeth than Dean here.” The laughter of the kids peals through the rink and Dean starts to relax. This isn't so bad.

“Okay, one from Krissy, what do you do for luck?” Dean pulls out his amulet and flourishes it. “This right here. Always have to wear it for a big event. My little brother gave it me and I hardly take it off, but for the big ones I check it a thousand times or something before I get on the rink. I got a strict routine for putting clothes and pads on as well, can't change it. It's real common to get superstitious like that.”

Novak follows. “Do you have any good luck rituals before a big performance? Asked by Jesse.” His eyes flick to Dean for some reason, and he flushes faintly. “Well, Jesse, like Dean said, we all tend to have superstitions. Mine are the way I lace my boots, and never using new laces for competitions, and I always say the Lotus Sutra a few times. The Lotus Sutra is a Buddhist chant. Om mani padme hum. It helps me calm down.” The strange syllables resonate in his deep voice. He flushes again, continuing, “Sometimes when I'm far away from home I imagine my family and friends around me, to make me feel more comfortable performing in front of strangers.”

“Hey, I do that too,” Dean says, surprised. “Didn't really think of it as a good luck thing, more of a psyching myself up thing. But it works. Some coaches actually tell you to imagine the opposing team as people you hate, you know? So you don't mind wailing on them so much. But that can backfire pretty badly. You don't wanna Hulk out on some other kid, you can really hurt them badly without realising it. And it's hard to let it go after the match is over. 'S why there's a lot of pictures of me punching people. Couldn't let go of the aggression when I was off the rink some days.”

A couple of the older kids have the constipated look of uncomfortable enlightenment, and at least one of the dads is looking shame-faced; a lot of the rest of the parents are nodding thoughtfully. Novak has a small frown on his face but clears it when he looks back at Jesse. “Thank you for the question, Jesse.” He turns towards Dean and asks quietly, “Shall we keep doing it this way? Combining our answers seems to garner the most interest, and means we can go off-topic a little more. We seem to have many of the same questions.”

Dean nods and gives him a small smile. “Sure thing, man. Seems more fun this way.” He compares their two question sheets and points at one about training routines; Novak nods slightly and Dean launches in. “Looks like Shonique and Andy both have the same question here, can you guys give us a wave? Okay, great,” and he's off, answering questions and occasionally sharing jokes with Novak.

There are a lot of similarities between their lives, it turns out. They talk candidly about the pressures of having corporate sponsors, and how freeing it is not to have to worry about them any more, and it looks like even the adults didn't think about that aspect of it much.

Couple of questions about being famous: Dean related how the paparazzi would hound him and shout slurs about his Mom and Dad, especially after Dad had died, so he would punch them and they'd get pictures. They all look pretty horrified at that. Castiel says something pointed about hatchet jobs by the press and Dean notices Marv smirking; he glares at him until the smile falls from his face.

They make it round to the last couple of questions that they've both been avoiding. Dean suppresses a sigh when he looks at the sheet. Charlie better have her fingers ready on her keyboard. “From Billy. What's the coolest injury you ever got? Lotta ways I could answer this. First off, I don't like being hurt, so none of them were cool. But I'm guessing you don't care about moralising. So I'm gonna go with getting my head kicked in at the end of last season. Reason being, not the sheer amount of blood and teeth I lost, or how my nose was smeared across my face like it was jelly, but because I stopped it happening to my friend and team-mate, and that's a good thing, because they'd've been even more vicious to Vic than they were to me. So it was worth every punch, and all of the months of operations I went through so I could look this pretty at the end of it. Cas? You got one?”

Novak's looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. “I have to say, I also don't think injuries are cool. Although I'm probably proudest of the time I broke my hand punching a reporter for insinuating that my fifteen-year-old fellow athlete was good in bed. That was worth it. I know there are some of you here who are nearly the same age as she was,” he says, looking at the figure skating girls, “and you will soon have to face things like that. Please don't feel like you're alone when they do it to you. It's not okay, and they should never say those things.”

Well, shit, Novak's a damn hero. “I've seen it happen to the women's teams in hockey before too,” Dean admits, looking at the girls on his side of the audience. “I'm real sorry you gotta face that shi- uh, sexist... rubbish. On the up-side, if you punch anyone for it, it kinda fits with the sport.” They give him grim smiles and one of them, Krissy he thinks, flexes her fist. “Looks like you already know what I'm talking about. So, guys, you're all sitting here thinking it don't affect you, right? Well, it should. You should get angry over it. It's not okay for dirty old men to perv on your friends and colleagues.”

Half of them are nodding, some of them are confused, and some of them are dismissive, but it's about what Dean would expect. He's done some PR stunts coaching girls' teams in the past, to make up for punching people in restaurants, and he's learned a thing or two, but it can take time to sink in.

The parents are mostly looking at him and Ca – and Novak – with a resigned “I really wish you hadn't said that, now I have to answer hard questions” look on their faces. Some of the moms are angry and sad; some of them are giving the two of them heart-eyes. The dads are – actually a couple of them are doing the same thing. Krissy's dad is giving him the same hard smile she is.

“And hey, figure skating types, I'm sure one of the hockey players'll teach you how to throw a punch if you wanna learn. Probably wouldn't tell your parents though.” Dean winks at them, and more than a few nod thoughtfully or gleefully.

“Or me,” Novak says. “After breaking my hand I made sure to learn how to do it properly.” There's a story there, or several, Dean can tell. Novak's too tense and angry about this question for there not to be.

He'd promised to teach Cas how to throw a decent punch, once, but then their friendship had come crashing down and he never had.

“Always hurts, even if you do it right,” Dean says. Cas – damnit, Novak – nods ruefully. “So, thanks for the question, Billy.” The kid in question looks like he's been made to think about things and kind of resents it, but he also looks at a girl a couple of seats away from him and nods at her, so Dean's gonna count it as a win, even if some of the parents are looking daggers at him now.

Up top, behind them all, Bela is giving him an approving look. Marv whispers something at her ear, and she calmly lifts one long leg and stabs it on his foot. She wears killer heels, and Dean has personal knowledge of the damage she can do with him. Marv turns pale but doesn't make a squeak. He does move seats, though. Deans gives her the faintest smile and wink he can manage, and she nods regally and continues to type on her tablet.

Charlie is making little fist pumps every time Dean looks her way, and Novak's guy is smirking at the pair of them in satisfaction. He nudges Novak with his shoulder. “Your turn, dude,” he hisses, and some of the closest kids snigger.

“Oh! Yes. Sorry. This last one is from Ben. How do you deal with people calling you a, well, I'm not going to say that word, but it's a homophobic slur.”

Some of the littler kids are looking confused. “That means a word that's rude about boys who like boys, or girls who like girls,” Dean explains. “Some people think there's something wrong with it. They're wrong. There ain't.”

“Yes,” Novak agrees, but he's surprised that Dean stepped in. “And it's a common thing to think about men who like figure skating, whether they're fans or skaters themselves.”

“And girls who like ice hockey or play it,” Dean interjects. “Sorry for interrupting again.”

“No, it – it's fine. Some people think that some sports are only suitable for boys or for girls, which is wrong, and some people like being mean, and they bully you by using these words. The way I deal with it is to ignore it. It hurt me a lot when I was your age, but I learned how to ignore it. It... it can get lonely as a boy in figure skating, but I made a lot of friends who were girls, as well as a few girlfriends.”

Dean can't bring himself to look Charlie in the eye, but he's pretty sure she's willing him on. Time to earn his handmaiden stripes. He fidgets with his fingers nervously. “Uh, I can't speak for what it's like as a girl playing hockey, but you get a lot of slurs like that in the big leagues. Some players like to rile you up so you get angry and stupid. I hated it at first, for the words as well as the intent, but I tried not to get stupid angry.”

His hands are sweating. “I guess people say it if they think you got something to hide, as well as if they think it'll make you angry. Well, being angry or wanting to hide something ain't wrong. The problem is not channelling your anger productively. Like, some guy calls you a – a bad name, don't throw it back at him and become the same person he is. Be better than him. Use your anger to make you faster, to jump higher, to hit the puck harder. Don't let it control you.”

“Yes, I've done that,” Castiel says, looking at the floor. “Used the anger and hurt to make myself better on the ice. The desire to prove someone wrong can be a powerful thing.”

“The other thing is, if it's true – and I have no idea if it is or not for any of you – but if it is, don't think it's a bad thing, and don't let them win. They're the bigots if they're saying that being gay makes you weak. I ain't weak, and I'm gay as hell.”

There's a small scuffle happening in the journalist seats but Dean can't focus on it. The rest of the rink is silent. Novak appears to be frozen beside him. Charlie is typing furiously and almost silently. “Couldn't ever say it 'fore I retired, because the owners and sponsors wouldn't let me, and my Dad was – I'm gonna go with not very supportive. He didn't beat me up or disown me, but he was disappointed and angry. But, uh. Rumours are the only things faster'n pucks on the ice. So I got a lot of insults.

“And you know what? Whenever I beat them in a game, whenever we won, it made the worst, well, bullies I guess, it made them incandescent with rage and shame. And I used that to make 'em stupid, so I won more. And I'm real sorry I couldn't say this ten years ago to make it easier for y'all now, but I'm saying it now, and I'm damn glad of it.”

His hands are shaking again from the adrenaline, and he takes another glucose tablet out carefully and pops it in his mouth, and only after that does he work up the nerve to look around the room. The younger kids don't really understand, the older ones are mostly thrilled to hear this prime piece of gossip first-hand. Some of them look pissed or confused, but there's a couple of them that look, well, that look like they're trying to hide the part of them that wants to cheer. Dean gets being closeted.

Of the parents, the reaction is much the same only more mixed. There's some disgust on a couple of faces, but there's some support too. One of the dads is crying silently. He mouths “Thank you,” and Dean tears up and nods at him.

“So, Ben, I hope that answers your question,” Novak says. The kid nods, looking fierce, and his eyes are shining.

Dean did that. Shit, he's gonna cry, he's gotta get it together before the training.

“So, uh, demonstration now. We're gonna warm up before getting into it, I think there should be hot chocolate for you guys while you wait for us, right Cain?” Dean smiles with manic good cheer, hops over the barrier, and is out and skating before anyone has a chance to ask him anything. His muscles have cooled down some, but he'd kept stretching during the questions like a good boy, and he should be good to go in a few minutes.

One of the staff throws him his stick and skims a puck over the ice and he chases it down, loosening his shoulders off and getting used to the feel of the stick under his bare hands. Novak is somewhere down the other end; Dean thinks he's doing some small spins and jumps, from the noises. He gives himself enough time to get his face and body under control and safe to use again, and heads towards the centre, hoping Novak is paying enough attention to notice him.

He is, and he glides to a halt with all the grace he ever had. Dean feels like a tongue-tied kid again for a second.

“Dean,” Cas starts, but he stops and shakes his head. “Now is not the time. I'm told your demonstration involves pumpkins and some parent volunteers?”

“Yeah. The pumpkin part'll get messy. You wanna go first?” Dean doesn't try to meet his eyes.

“I'd appreciate that.”

“Cool, I'll commentate for you. You got music going?”

“Cain has it lined up.” Novak's still moving, keeping himself limber; Dean makes a conscious effort to do the same.

“Okay. Well, good luck. Least there's no pressure though.”

“Oh no, none at all, these children are only my biggest fans and harshest critics,” Novak replies drily.

“You'll do great, man. You're always great.” Dean finally looks at him and gives him a tiny smile, the most he can manage; he feels raw and exposed now that the rush has worn off.

Novak nods solemnly, blue eyes gazing steadily back at him. “You, too. The hard part is already done.”

Dean nods and pushes off, back to a crowd of people who are still talking about him. And Charlie, who's beaming with pride, and Cain, who's been watching this whole time, ready to count Cas in.

Novak. It's Novak. Damnit, he has to remember that. They're not friends, and that's Dean's fault, and he doesn't get to call him a cute nickname and apologise for being a dick when he was a stupid kid. This was for publicity. They both got books coming out. That's all this is.

He worries at his lip where he bit it earlier, works the taste through his mouth, and lets his anger at himself carry him forward. “Okay! Cas is gonna go first, because he doesn't need any props and I do, so you get me commentating for you while he's on the ice. If you don't wanna hear me any more – don't blame you, I been talking for a while – go a little ways further down. Don't worry though, I know what I'm talking about. Been watching him for years. Hockey players, this might not seem like it's relevant to you, but this guy taught me some stuff that I used my whole career, so be open-minded, okay? This is as much a sport as hockey is. It's just prettier.”

Some of the figure skaters peel off in a group to watch separately, but most of them hang around. Some of the hockey players look like they want to leave and chatter, but hey, he's Dean Fucking Winchester, they're willing to hang around just for him.

God, he despises himself sometimes. But whatever. That arrogance will get him through the rest of today.

Cas comes to a halt and looks up at Cain, and the music starts.

Journey. Don't Stop Believing.

Dean chokes a laugh back as Cas starts moving on the ice, less formal than he ever was in competition but still precise in his movements, following the tempo and emotion of the piece to the letter. He limits his commentary to naming the moves and occasional exclamations; Cas's jumps are flawless and he lands his quads and triples with ease, his spins are breathtaking and the footwork, shit, Dean could watch it forever.

He takes care to point out the athleticism on display. No-one's gonna leave here thinking figure skating is the easy option if he can help it.

And it's a different thing, watching it up close like this. The noise of Novak's blades is obvious against the quieter music, and the speed and power behind the jumps stands out. He's set it up well, so that most of the major elements take place within easy eyeline of the audience; a nice touch, making the performance more intimate as well as more obvious. He still uses the whole rink – needs it for the run-up to the big jumps – but the good stuff is all happening so close to Dean he can almost reach out and touch it.

He'd watched on the edge of the rink like this at the last Olympics they'd competed in, talked his way in as a fellow competitor and member of Team USA, and he had screamed until he was hoarse when it was done, throwing his own cap into the rink. He'd slipped out before the cameras caught him though, because he was a coward with a hard reputation.

The tiny audience erupts in cheers when Cas is finished, even the jock dads whooping and clapping, and Dean's as loud as the rest of them. Novak glides up to the barrier, winded and grinning, and Dean claps him on the back and gives him a thumbs up like he did when they were 12. For a second, his vision is doubled as he sees the skinny kid Cas was superimposed on the man he is now, and he realises that Cas had made it, all of his dreams come true, and he lifts him up in a hug that has Cas laughing in his ear.

Cain's staff are swinging out onto the ice planting variously sized pumpkins with numbered flags next to them. Cain laces up his skates with a grin. Dean shucks off his sweatshirt, tossing it at Cas, dude's gonna freeze up in just that thin top if he doesn't layer up, and digs into his bag to throw on the rest of his gear. His routine's all outta whack, but this isn't a big match, this is just him on the ice, so he'll be fine.

The smallest pumpkin is one of those teeny tiny ones that people carve cutesy little faces into for Halloween. It's smaller than his fist. He shows the crowd. “So, I got a bunch of pumpkins out there, and I'm gonna make a mess of them. I'll be aiming for each one in order, you see those numbers? Only to make it hard for myself I'm gonna need some full size volunteers to get in the way. Cain here'll be in charge of you.”

He tosses the little pumpkin from hand to hand absently, looking around the eager moms and dads, who're practically jumping up and down shouting “Pick me! Pick me!” like their kids. Cain picks the volunteers by getting them to draw lots, the fairest way they can manage really. He ends up with four dads and one determined looking mom.

“Right, get your gear on and warm up on the ice, Cain'll talk you through tactics,” Dean says. They set to it speedily. Dean talks to the rest of the audience while he waits for them, telling them about the safety gear and the types of things that are allowed and not allowed. He hands the little pumpkin around too, so they can all feel it, before throwing it out to Cain who places it carefully beside a number seven flag in clear sight of the audience.

He touches his amulet for luck and tucks it into his shirt, vaulting the barrier and pushing off hard down to the other end of the rink. He's got a job to do. Charlie's commentating for the audience, and Novak is watching avidly. Gotta get this right and not fuck it up.

Cain gives him a nod from the other end and the puck starts passing around the group, defensive plays, they're all still cautious. Dean grins like a shark and charges up the rink. They're gonna have to try harder than that to keep him away from it.

He hits his first target with one sweep of the stick, and he laughs at the cheers as he watches the defenders buckle down. Two and three go quick too, they're nowhere near as fast as him; four is harder though, the mom is clever on her feet and good at disguising her movements and it takes him a long time to get the puck away from her, by which time he's on the other side of the rink from four. He takes the shot anyway, whooping when the pumpkin guts spill over the ice.

Cain's good though, and he's shouting orders and they're following him, and a couple of the dads are trying to psyche him out by being homophobic douches. Or maybe they're just being homophobic douches without thinking about the mind games, who know. He gets body-checked hard and takes a spill, bites his lip bad, but all he does is laugh in their faces and give them a bloody grin, it takes more than that to worry him, and he's out of their reach and stealing the puck before anyone can stop him. Five goes with a crack as the puck bursts through it and crashes into the barrier.

The douchebag duo ride him hard from there on though, he probably shouldn't've laughed, and Cain is taking point on the defence of the puck. Getting six is hard work, another long shot, and one of the other dads nearly gets his stick in to deflect it. Dean's sweating now, this is hard work and he's getting winded. End is in sight though and the audience is still giving him energy, he's got enough in the tank for another couple of plays.

Tiny seven is hard to see from far away, he's gonna have to get close. He can't cover all of the defenders so he targets the weak links, the guys who're too busy trying to beat him up to play a good game, and forces Cain to pass to them. Steals the puck with a fancy piece of stick work, sending it far away from the defenders and racing after it, but suddenly he's sliding across the ice on his face as his foot is jerked from under him – someone tripped him with their stick, he guesses, and Cain's shouting angrily somewhere.

No matter. The puck's still in play. He rolls over and pushes himself up, only slightly stiff from the fall, and goes after the mom, who's managed to chase after it and retake possession. She makes a tricky pass down his left side, always weaker, and he swears quietly as she laughs at him joyfully.

The douchebags are still overconfident and Dean fakes weakness to fool them. It works like a charm, and he has the puck, and keeps it moving in front of him as seven comes into sight. One last hit and it explodes into shards of pumpkin across the ice, and he's breathing hard and leaning on his stick but he did it.

One against six, seven dead pumpkins, and a crowd of cheering kids. Even the figure skating ones look excited and energised about it, so he guesses it was a good show. Cain slaps him on the back and leads him back off the ice.

“And that's why we wear our damn helmets,” he shouts, quieting the cheers down, and sits down heavily. Novak shoves an open bottle of some electrolyte balancing crap in his hand and takes his helmet and gloves, and Dean chugs it back quickly; he's starting to shake again and his vision is swimming a little. He breathes through it.

“You were amazing,” Novak says quietly as Cain starts to organise the kids. “I was very impressed with your skill.”

“Nah, man, I just hit a puck around a rink. You were the awesome one.” Dean swirls juice around his mouth to remove the lingering taste of blood.

“Our skills are different, that doesn't mean they're not equally impressive,” he counters in an exasperated tone of voice. “You demonstrated superior tactical knowledge, adaptability, stamina, accuracy, and the ability to continue functioning after taking several injuries. Don't sell yourself short.”

“Dude, you throw yourself in the air and spin four times and then land and do it again two seconds later. You're the better athlete.”

Novak rolls his eyes and mutters something about low self-esteem, but Dean ignores him, stretching out his muscles and joints so he doesn't stiffen up.

Training the kids takes up another hour of their time, but it's pretty gentle exercise. They do the warm up and cool down as one big group, and Dean calls Novak over at one point to demonstrate how to use the body's momentum to keep balanced even on the edge of a fall; he'd learned the trick from him years ago, and it had saved him from a lot of spills over the years, so he figures the kids could stand to learn it too.

Dean makes a point to talk to each of his kids personally, even if it's only for a couple of minutes, giving them tips or just letting them enthuse at him for a while. They're all still receptive. Krissy's really good, he can see a future for her in this, and he tells her so; she beams with pride for the rest of the afternoon. Billy mutters an apology for being a dick with the question earlier, and calls Dean brave. “I got a gay cousin,” he says simply. “This'll make things easier for him. So thanks, man.” Dean hides his emotion behind a fist bump and they skate on; Billy probably won't make the big leagues but he's solid in defence, could stand to get a little faster on his turns, and Dean points him at the figure skaters and tells him to get one of them to help. Billy nods.

He won today, he realises. Even if Marv is working on a hatchet job with douchebags one and two as he suspects, the kids have listened, and he's done a good thing. He breathes easier after that.

They wrap up eventually, sign autographs and say their goodbyes, and Dean heads to the showers before any annoying redheads can stop him. He's sore and disgusting with dried sweat and he wants to soak. Charlie will wait for him. Chew him out, maybe, but she knows him by now.

Off the ice and adrenaline free, his uncanny spatial awareness fades back to normal levels. He devoted a whole chapter to it in the book, talking about its upsides and downsides, how it was honed and trained by fighting and violence. Sam has it too. Probably genetic, but Dean ain't gonna pass it on, that's for damn sure.

He strips carelessly, tipping out his duffel bag to get his shower gear, and heads into the showers. There are cubicles as well as an open area, and Dean heads for his old favourite, slightly larger than all the rest and with a lip of tile that he can sit on carefully.

Under the water, as hot as he can bear it, he finally lets the tears go. They mingle with the water and wash away. He's always been a quiet crier, and today is no different.

Cas – fuck's sake, Novak, gotta get it together – comes in after a while and showers as well, occasional muttered curse suggesting that he's manipulating some sore patches under the heat. Dean follows suit reluctantly. His joints click and pop as he rolls them out, but he doesn't think any major damage has been done. Knee'll be fucked tomorrow, but that's par for the course now.

Novak's out first, but he hadn't been having a crying jag in the showers, so he would be. He's also carrying fewer injuries. By the time Dean limps out he's towelling off his hair and mostly dressed.

Dean eases himself down and rubs cooling gel on his knee. Might help. He pulls on a clean pair of underwear before he tackles the support bandages; his knee and both ankles have a horrible habit of swelling if he pushes it, and he hates the puffiness. Oedema, docs say, fluid under the skin, caused by tissue damage.

“That's a lot of bandaging,” Novak observes. “Should you have been out on the ice for that long?” He sounds worried, god knows why.

“Nah, it's mostly preventative. Support stuff, you know.” Novak still has the brace on his arm, so Dean guesses he's familiar with the pressure of old injuries. He straps his knee in the brace and swears as it twinges hard. “Fuck! Okay, maybe the whole three hours wasn't the best idea.”

“How did you manage that when you were in the Stars?” Novak wonders.

“Lotta physio. Plus it was less bad then. Someone took a swing at it in the, uh, scuffle at the end of the season. Broke the patella and lost a bunch of cartilage, I'm gonna get it replaced once the arthritis gets too bad but I wanna wait as long as I can, they need replaced every decade or so.”

Novak looks horrified again. And angry. “Someone did that to you? Deliberately?”

“Well, it was already fucked, but yeah,” Dean shrugs. “It was an ugly fight.”

Novak scowls at him and pulls out his phone, sitting down, while Dean concentrates on getting the rest of his clothes on. Pants go on last; he favours big cargo pants so he can get the bulky knee brace on and off if he needs to while still hiding it from prying eyes. Always used to be a jeans man, but needs must.

The tinny sound of the speakers alerts Dean to the fact that Novak is watching footage of his last match, the infamous career ending one. He's biting one of those pale lips as he watches. Dean starts packing up; he knows what's coming, but he still flinches when he hears the crack against his knee, the smack of his head against the ice, and the greasy crunching sound when his nose and teeth were smashed in.

Novak takes it harder, audibly gasping and making a pained little noise at the last bit when the trio of attackers were pulled off him leaving him bleeding and motionless on the ice. “I had no idea,” he whispers. “You could have died.”

“Pretty sure that was their intention,” Dean grunts. “No fags allowed in the final.” He rolls his eyes.

“Dean, I'm – I'm so sorry.” He sounds pretty raw with emotion.

“Don't be, we won,” Dean replies, meeting his eyes. “I did my job and got paid for it. Vic nailed them in the last period. The whole team got fined, I think.”

Novak's still looking sad and angry, but he hoists his own gear bag and heads out with him. “You're worth more than that,” he says quietly.

“Nothing's worth more than the Stanley Cup,” Dean tries to joke, but it falls flat at the sorrow in those blue eyes. “Aw, don't be like that. I barely remember it,” he lies. “It was over real fast, and then I got the good drugs for a couple weeks. And I have teeth and a nose again. It's all fine.”

“What.” Novak's voice is flat. “Dean Winchester, do you mean to tell me that you lost your, your face?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean says blankly. “I did say. And you just saw. They don't just pop that shit back in again.” He rubs a finger gently over the bridge of his nose and his gums; the nerves have started to heal and it feels mostly normal now. “It's all fine now. I got fixed up real good.”

Cas has gotta be really upset to break out the Polish, but he does so now, fists clenching around his bag, and damn but it's sexy. “I had no idea,” he says lowly once he's done. “I wish I'd known, I would have done something. Killed them, maybe. Sent you flowers at least.”

“Ah, come on, it's a hazard of the sport,” Dean shrugs. “I was back on my feet real fast. And I got excellent health insurance for the rest of my life out of my contract, so no worries on that count.”

“You sent me flowers when I fell and broke my wrist,” Novak shoots back. “And a bag of candy. Fed Ex'd to Shanghai. And I didn't even – I didn't even know you'd been hurt. Please, Dean, let me be angry with myself over that. I know you don't think you deserve my friendship, but you showed far more concern and support to me over the years than I ever did for you, and that's not okay. I am allowed to be pissed off at myself.”

Dean's uncomfortable now, blushing and stumbling down the corridor to the small café for the private members. “Well, I had more to make up for. I was awful to you way back when. I just, I wanted to let you know I was sorry, but I could never find the words.”

Cas is silent next to him as they enter the room, the smell of Cain's honey-rich hot toddies and warm cider making the air warm and welcoming. As expected, both their PR people are waiting for them; Charlie's almost lost behind a giant cup of hot chocolate covered in marshmallows, and the blond guy is sipping a mulled cider delicately.

Dean sinks into a seat with a sigh; it's probably too low for his knee's liking, but his back is singing its praises. Novak sits beside him more stiffly. “What's the verdict, Charlie?”

“Awesome. Well, as awesome as we could expect. Some shit-posting and trolling but nothing the servers can't handle, and there's a lot of support out there. Ellen - not your aunt, the other one - she wants you next week, and there's loads of other offers. I offered Bela the print exclusive like you said, she jumped on it.”

Dean just nods, tired now. Long day, not over yet. He can't think it's a bad idea any more, not knowing about Billy's cousin, and Ben, and Krissy, but this has taken a lot out of him.

“We have some goodwill too, Cassie,” the blond drawls in one of those annoying mid-Atlantic accents. “Your excellent performance has been uploaded, reception is very positive, and I made a statement on your behalf announcing your full support of Dean here. Always good to be quick off the mark.” He extends a hand to Dean. “Balthazar Rochefort. Pleasure to meet you. You were very impressive too. Excellent work smashing up gourds.”

“Makes sure the kids keep their helmets on,” Cain comments as he puts drinks in front Dean and Cas. “Your usuals, boys. Bookings are up already thanks to you two.”

Dean breathes in the steam rising from his hot toddie with a happy smile. This is the only part about being here untainted by unhappy memories; it had always been between him and Sam after a match, when Dad was still talking to Coach Walker and everyone else was gone. The tiny splash of brandy had changed to a proper shot of whisky as he'd grown up though.

Novak smiles up at Cain through a hot chocolate moustache and Dean's heart skips a beat for a second. “Thank you, Cain,” he says sincerely. “No one ever makes them as good as you.”

“That's the honey,” Cain nods. “I'll get you boys a jar or two when you're leaving.” He leaves them to it, going back to the tiny kitchen, and silence falls over the table.

The urge to fill it with dismissive comments and as many jokes as he can muster is strong, but Dean's been told by his therapist – a lot – to try not to do that. Benny works mainly with sportspeople, and he's used to what he calls the performance bullshit that a lot of them pick up. Dean's no exception, apparently. He's gonna be having a long talk over Skype with him later, it's already scheduled in. 

Gonna have to talk to Sam as well. He turns his phone on with a scowl and skims it over to Charlie, giving her his best puppy-dog eyes. She nods and starts filtering stuff.

“All good,” she says after a few minutes. “Sam says he loves you and you're a jerk, Chris Kluwe says you better not turtle up, he's got a thing he needs you for in Overwatch, and Bobby sends his love and calls you an idjit. Five times. Is that a new record?”

“Season's best.” Dean manages a faint smile. His all-time best was after the final last year, when Bobby had managed to call him an idjit twelve times in one long text message. Dean had printed it out and framed it.

Novak frowns at Balthazar. “Why don't you screen my phone like that?”

“One, she gets paid far more than me, two, I can't be bothered, and three, you didn't just come out as a gay athlete in an aggressively macho sport.” Balthazar sniffs dismissively. Charlie smirks. Cas grumbles into his cocoa.

Dean takes his phone back. Charlie's already set it in super privacy mode, and she'll get vetting his mentions for the next few weeks pretty heavily; she's using some auto-blockers and some searchable term filters that will keep his online spaces as safe as possible if he decides to look in. He probably won't, but she'll take care of the fans for him.

“You know we're going to have to work on a separate statement about why you didn't come out at the same time,” Balthazar says off-handedly, and Dean freezes in his seat. Charlie's eyes grow wide as saucers.

Novak growls something unintelligible and concentrates on a dissolving marshmallow. “I'm sure I pay you enough to have some ideas.”

“You do. And I like you, so I had more than one. So: we had previously arranged exclusives and didn't want to compromise them, or you didn't want to take the spotlight away from Dean and thus weaken his message. Probably both.”

“We'll support you and say something positive about everyone coming out in their own time,” Charlie says decisively.

“Thank you, darling,” Balthazar coos, and they air-kiss ostentatiously.

Dean's pretty sure that he's gone into some magical dream world. Maybe Cain roofied him? He tastes his hot toddie carefully. Seems fine. His knee hurting isn't necessarily an indication that he's not asleep though, the pain of it shows up in dreams sometimes, so he pokes his bitten lip. Yup, still sore. Must be real then.

“Is in the book?” Charlie asks delicately.

Novak nods. “I have unfortunate taste in men. I talk about it at some length. A therapist once said I am unconsciously trying to replace my absent father by seeking out destructive relationships with unsuitable men. I went off men for some time after that.”

“Yes, Meg and April were much much healthier,” Balthazar says drily. He gets a sullen glower in return.

“You might think to add in a sentence about bi-erasure,” Charlie says thoughtfully. “If you'd come out publicly as well you would just be labelled gay.”

“Oh, good catch,” Balthazar says approvingly. “Don't know much about it myself. Strictly a ladies man.”

“You have orgies. With other men involved.” Cas is still smarting over the relationship comment, then, he gets bitchy when he's pissed.

“Yes, but I don't touch them,” Balthazar protests. “Unless we're, well, let's just say I know some very accommodating ladies.”

“Dude, TMI,” Dean snorts. Charlie wrinkles her nose in agreement.

Cain comes back in with a frown. “Lot of reporters and photographers outside waiting for you, I'm not letting any of them in but it's a shitstorm out there. You got an an escape plan?”

Dean exchanges a worried glance with Charlie. They had arrived in his Impala, Dean being allergic to her yellow monstrosity, but it was instantly recognisable. The paps had swarmed him more than once in it, some of them even damaging the paintwork in an effort to get a reaction from him.

“Oh, that's easy,” Balthazar says off-handedly. “Cas and I go out first, distract them, you climb into our car, we drive you out, you pick up your car later or tomorrow once they all get bored.”

“I can tweet something about catching up with Cain, that should hold them off for a little while,” Charlie says thoughtfully.

“Where are you staying? The Marriott?” They nod, and Balthazar smirks at Novak. “See, I told you I saw them this morning.”

“Thanks, Bal, this is really great of you,” Dean manages. The thought of spending even more with Novak is making his skin crawl, or maybe that's just sitting in proximity to him. He's been crushing on him for years, after all, and every time he thinks it's finally over it pops right back up again like an unwanted boner. Exactly like one, sometimes.

He sits in silence after that, letting the warming effect of the hot liquid and whisky heat up his insides, while Charlie and Balthazar talk strategy. At his side, Novak is similarly deep in thought, hiding behind his mug and giving monosyllabic answers to the questions thrown his way.

Charlie doesn't even bother to ask Dean anything; she knows better by now, knows when to give him space and when to jolly him along. She's a great friend as well as a loyal manager/agent/technical wizard, and he would be lost without her for sure. People try to poach her occasionally but she always turns them down. He doesn't know what he did to inspire such loyalty, but he's grateful for it, that's for damn sure.

Drinks finished, they make their escape. It goes pretty smoothly; Charlie and Dean sneak out the side door and slide into the showy pimptastic Continental without anyone seeing them, making a game of being stealthy ninjas, and hide under the blankets in the back seat. The other two follow them after a short and apparently annoying interview.

“If he asks me that one more time I will punch him again,” Cas growls as he slams his door shut, and damn, there goes Dean's dick, perking up at the sound of his voice right on cue. Dean wills the chubby away before Charlie notices, or so he fervently hopes. She knows the history, how could she not at this point, but he doesn't need her poking fun at him.

Not like he can control it, anyway. It'd been a long enough time after all the pain and operations for things to get back to something approaching normal in the downstairs department; unwanted boners are still kind of reassuring right now. Charlie doesn't know that part though. Only Benny and his doctors were told about that.

The blankets hide him from prying eyes, but they also make him uncomfortably hot and sweaty, lying listlessly with his head on Charlie's lap. He starts getting sleepy from the stale air, and he's half dozing by the time they reach the parking garage beneath the hotel.

Getting out of the car proves challenging. He's too old for crap like this. He waits to clear the cobwebs from his head before even attempting to hoist himself out, both knees complaining at the enforced stillness. He has to steady himself on the roof of the pimpmobile until he's sure his left knee won't spasm or, worse, collapse out entirely.

He waves off the apologies from Charlie and Bal. “It's fine, I knew what would happen and I still agreed to the plan,” he shrugs. “It was the best way to get outta there and we all know it. Let's just get inside, I got a date with my ther – with Benny.”

Cas watches his progress like a hawk even so, eyes tracing the places where Dean got hit worst in his last match. When he stumbles navigating the pile of luggage some jackass left in the corridor, Cas's hand shoots out to clamp around his arm.

Hockey Dean would have shaken it off angrily, or maybe with a joke, but retired Dean is too tired for posturing. He leans into the firm grip for a second while he regains his balance. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “'Preciate it.”

“Of course,” Cas murmurs back, and then they're at Cas's door, same corridor as Dean and Charlie, and he goes inside. Bal and Charlie head for Nerd HQ, where Charlie's got a small but sophisticated media suite set up, and Dean limps slowly into his room.

He knee screams a complaint when he peels the brace off; it's been trying to swell even through the tight bandaging, and the skin is pitted with various marks from the pressure. Itches like a bastard, too, and he scratches it carefully as he calls Benny on Skype.

By the time the call's finished his skin has returned to normal, which is to say scarred and discoloured, and it's visibly swollen. The heat coming off it isn't enough to be worrying, but he's gonna need to take it easy for the rest of the night.

He wanted takeout anyway. Giovanni's is still around and they deliver, so he should be able to get his pizza fix without any hassle. He sets in for a night of careful exercises and binge-watching Buffy (season 2, the best one) on Netflix.


	2. Reach, and flexibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: see those tags? See that rating? Right.

Dean sleeps pretty well – the mattress is memory foam, of course he does – and he's pleasantly surprised to find out that his knee is less painful than he expected it to be. He might even get some skating in at Cain's before he rescues Baby.

Being there was really hard yesterday, but it's amazing what a full night's sleep and some good therapy can do for a guy. Benny is his best cheerleader, talking him gently through his worst thought patterns with his warm Louisiana drawl and his endless compassion, and their talk yesterday had left him drained but happy.

He heads down to the gym before breakfast, eating a handful of granola for energy first. He hates the stuff, but it does the trick, and he's gotta be careful now he's a civilian. Lotta former hockey and football players end up really big in retirement, and he's vain as fuck and doesn't want to be one of them. Plus, with the joints and the regular operations in his future, he's gotta keep at least reasonably trim; he can't put too much pressure on the damaged bone and cartilage, and he needs to maintain reasonable muscle tone around the knee to support it as best he can.

Look at him, with a long term plan. Who'd've thought.

He avoids the rowing machine, bikes, and cross-trainer, far too high-impact for today, and does some light maintenance weights and stretches before hitting the pool. His exercise playlist protects him from the whispers in the weight room, although he sees people staring at him. Let them look. He's not in peak condition any more, with the ridiculous diet and exercise that entails, but he's looking damn good.

The pool's pretty busy, lots of yuppie business types in doing their cleanses and exercising, but there's a quiet spot he gravitates towards. He hates being crowded in a pool.

Of course it turns out it's quiet because Novak's already there doing lengths. Of fucking course. Still, it keeps everyone away from them, and Dean can get his lengths done in peace; Novak isn't competing with him, or slowing down to keep pace, or trying to drown him.

That happened once in Canada. Not a fond memory.

Dean eases himself out of the pool and walks towards the changing rooms gingerly, he can't afford to lose his balance with the knee. Novak climbs out of the pool and falls in step beside him. Great, now Dean has to try not to look at his frankly unfairly hot body, try not to fall, and try not to pop a boner, all at the same time.

“How is your knee today?” Novak asks, and goddamn it, now he has to talk as well.

“Okay. I did my physio like a good boy last night. How's the wrist?”

Novak rolls his hand around in a graceful gesture. “Good, actually. I only really had it strapped yesterday in case I fell. Apparently it helped a lot to have extra rigidity during the skate, though.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” They reach the lockers and Dean loosely towels off and pulls his hotel-issue bathrobe on. “Gonna shower in my room before breakfast, I'll see you down there.”

“Good idea, I hate communal showers,” Novak grumbles, and he throws his towel over his shoulders and hefts his bag up. “Lead the way.”

“Dude. At least put it around your waist.” Dean gestures helplessly at the long muscled thighs on display. “That's just cruel, man.”

Novak blinks owlishly at him. “But my hair will drip down my back. I hate that. It tickles.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, and he pulls his own damp towel off his shoulders and hands it over. “Use this.” Another look, this one Dean would swear coming directly from Sam's playbook, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, I'll do it.” He wraps the towel around Cas's – damnit Dean – around Novak's waist and secures it through a convenient loop of fabric. “See? It's even supposed to be tied like that.”

He tries not to see the slow smile on Novak's face, tries not to linger over the touch of warm smooth skin, tries not to let the tremor in his fingers show. He's not sure he succeeds. Novak still has that mole near his nipple, he notes absently. Got more hair than he used to though. Dean doesn't; he has about three, and Sam mocks him about it constantly. Stupid sasquatch.

He successfully manages to distract himself for long enough that they make it nearly to the elevator again before he notices the smooth planes of muscle down Cas's back and starts feeling like a perv again.

Novak is not his to look at. Or to call Cas, or to make jokes with; he lost that right, and hoping to regain it is a mug's game. Better this way.

Fate plays him for a fool though, and Novak has to walk in front of him down the corridor to their rooms as a large family pass by them with all their luggage, gawping at the pair of them. Dean's pretty sure they didn't get recognised, but the staring was bad enough.

The towel does nothing to hide the movement of Novak's ass. God fucking damnit. Dean's dick pulses and starts to take a direct interest; he scowls at the offending (and beautiful) ass and makes sure his bathrobe is tied. He has a horrible feeling he knows what's gonna happen as soon as Novak reaches his room.

Sure enough, he unties the towel and hands it to Dean with a cheerful smile. “Thank you, Dean. You were right, I did need the extra coverage for going through the hotel.”

It takes Dean a moment to speak; Novak's trunks are plastered to his legs and leaving nothing to the imagination. “Sure, man. See you downstairs.” He's proud of how normal he sounds.Years of practice at hiding his sexuality in the locker room have left him able to look Novak dead in the eye and not show a hint of the lust that is swirling in his gut.

He gets back to his room and his hand’s on his dick before he realises he’s moving, gripping it tight through his trunks. “Shit.” Feels so good he wants nothing more than to hump his hand until he comes on the plush carpet, but he’s gotta wash the chlorine off before his skin starts to sting, and he heads to the en suite to, well, multi-task.

It’s always like this after a match; he doesn’t get the instant release of testosterone some guys swear to get, no wild sexathons the night after for him - not that he could over the past couple years anyway with all of the injuries he’s needed to look after - but the day after he spends worked up and sporting a semi most of the day. It’s been long enough since he last played anything that got his blood up that he’d forgotten, or at least put it to the back of his mind. Just in time to spend the morning with Novak. Awesome.

At least jacking off will take the edge off for a few hours. He turns the shower on hot and strips off carefully. His trunks drag on his dick deliciously but he doesn’t touch himself again, not yet. He eases the waterproof bandage off his knee and steps into the shower with a happy sigh.

He washes himself carefully, smoothing his hands over all of his skin to make sure the sticky-dry feel of the chlorine has gone. Spends his time on his hair, too, working shampoo and conditioner well into the roots. He teases himself by washing his dick slowly and gently, massaging his balls clean with the lightest of touches, and his breath is coming faster as he hardens fully.

Someone got him body butter as a joke Christmas present last year. Joke’s on them, because Dean has baby soft skin now, plus it has other uses. He smoothes it over his skin and lets it sink in, sitting on the small fold-down chair helpfully installed in the shower. One hand slides down his stomach and the other plays with his nipples, perky as always, scraping his nails lightly over the sensitive skin there.

His balls are already starting to tighten as he starts stroking, slowly as he can manage at first. Images of Novak flash through his mind’s eye: a drip of water working its way down his chest, the curve of his lower back and ass in those tight trunks, long muscles working on the rink yesterday as he held himself in impossibly bendy positions; god, the things that Dean would love to do to him.

Or be done to by him. His hand’s working faster now and he can feel faint moans trying to escape his chest, but Dean isn’t loud in showers as a rule – trained himself too well to be quiet in them when he was a horny teenager, touching himself and thinking of Cas, forbidden to him then as now. If he’d known just how hot Cas would become he would've sprained something.

He glides his other hand down to roll his balls round while picking up the pace again, and his breath is coming faster, he’s starting to gasp, and everything is aching and perfect at once, he’s chasing his orgasm now, faster and harder and oh god, “Cas!” and he’s spilling come into his hand and riding the spasms with a shuddering sigh.

Water sluices over his head and washes all the evidence away. Showers are great at hiding all kinds of stuff. Tears yesterday, come today.

He stands up carefully on legs still loose and relaxed from the orgasm and washes the remains of the body butter from his skin. Pretty good session, all things considered. The gasping Cas's name thing was unexpected. Better get a lid on that next time. Hook-ups hate it when he says the wrong name by accident.

He doesn’t bother shaving, but he styles his hair efficiently, puts all the dirty laundry in a basket for Housekeeping - they wash and dry his trunks and everything, it’s amazing - throws on some clothes and heads down for breakfast.

There’s a family in the elevator with him. He gives them a polite smile and tries to ignore the stares; at least they’re not outright hostile.

His knee’s good and loose from the swim, and probably the jerking off, and he walks through the breakfast buffet with his old swagger. Lot of eyes on him as he loads up his plate with a nutritionally balanced but still tasty meal, and the noise doesn’t quiet when he sits at the same table as Cas - shit, as Novak.

Charlie is a huddled bleary-eyed mess behind her coffee and yogurt, never one for mornings, and she leans sleepily against his shoulder as he tucks in. Bal has a pot of tea and some muesli, looking dissatisfied with both, frowning at his phone. Novak has the same frown on his face as he sips a tiny coffee.

Desire burns hotly in Dean's stomach and he concentrates on his plate. “Something up?” He starts eating, digging into the boring healthy crap first.

“Bartholomew gave an exclusive to The Voice Of God. It’s… unpleasant. Nothing concerning you, though.” Novak sounds angry.

“We’ll have to up our game, Cassie,” Bal sighs. “Release a teaser chapter? Extracts, maybe?”

“You’re thinking too old school,” Charlie yawns. “If the publisher’s okay with it, sure, but you gotta hit up a social media campaign to get the message across. Start talking about abuses of power and the effects it has on young athletes. Retweet a bunch of links to support networks and stuff. He’s trying to frame himself as the victim of a hatchet job by a bitter former client; you need to frame him as the villain, before it gets fixed in people’s minds.”

“He’s been fired by more than one skater,” Dean says through a mouthful of natural yogurt and fruit. “Can’t you get them on board too?”

“I’ll drop a few hints with some people,” Charlie says. “Just give me five minutes, I gotta catch some more zees.” She closes her eyes and nuzzles Dean’s shoulder into a more comfortable position. Dean rolls his eyes fondly at her hair.

Novak’s looking at him curiously. “You know who Bart is?”

“Well, yeah. He was your manager, made a few weird decisions over a couple of seasons about a decade ago, you fired him, you got really good again. Not hard to tell there was something funky going on there.” Dean concentrated on his breakfast. He’d watched the possessive looks Bartholomew had given Cas at every rinkside interview and had been infuriated by them, and he never forgot a face he wanted to punch.

“We were lovers,” Novak says, blunt as ever. “He kept me in the closet and controlled my career. I finally left him after he cost me the World Championships, but it took a lot to rebuild from there. I had lost a lot of goodwill.”

Dean meets his eyes. “You did much better without him. It was real obvious, watching you skate. Like a load had come off your back.”

“It certainly felt that way,” Novak sighs. “The mistakes of youth.”

Balthazar is watching them with pursed lips, one hand tapping his tea. “Well, it’s good to see you’re both getting along so well. Why don’t you take Dean to pick up his vehicle, Cassie, whilst I make sure that Charlie here doesn’t fall asleep on her laptops and make something overheat.”

Novak gives him a sharp look but quirks his head at Dean; the offer is there, it seems. Dean nods. “Yeah, thanks, that would be great. Guess you two have some networking to do or something anyway.”

“Her expertise has proven invaluable,” Bal replies primly.

Charlie snores and startles herself awake. “Whassat? Izzit time for the raid?”

“Did you sleep at all last night, Charles?” Dean’s seen her like this a bunch of times, but never in public.

She yawns hugely. “Not really. Lot of things to do. Plus there was a podcast I really wanted to listen to, so…” She takes a mouthful of coffee and pulls a face, must be cold.

“Anything I need to know about?”

“Nah, someone reported a sighting of you in Cancun and most of the hacks have given up. Still some paps out but they shouldn’t mob you. Someone, by the way, who is untraceable to me in any way and is absolutely a real person.”

“Awesome.” Dean concentrates on breakfast, finishing it off with a kid-size waffle, single piece of bacon, and tablespoon of maple syrup. He lingers over it, savouring the tastes, pretending to himself that he’s eaten nothing else for the entire meal instead of the healthy, bad tasting crap he’d tried not to notice.

Sam said for years he was making it all up, but Dean had gotten tested on some celebrity bullshit program a couple years back, found out he was a supertaster, which is the worst superpower to have as far as he’s concerned. Still, Sam shut up after that, and started sending him links to miracle berry articles and recipes made by other supertasters to appeal to their weird palates, so that was definitely a win. Well, kind of a win. Some of the recipes were really shit.

Novak’s watching him through hooded eyes as he finishes licking syrup off his fork. “What? I got some on my face?”

He blinks and blushes faintly, shaking his head. “No, you just… looked like you were enjoying it.”

“Breakfast of champions, man,” Dean grins.

Bal snorts and Charlie smirks at him before yawning hugely. “Go do something active and sporty. We have work to do without needing to watch this. It’s spoiling my appetite.” He waves a languid hand at them and sips his tea.

Dean humphs, but picks up the trays and stands to leave. “I’m good to go whenever, just give me a knock when you wanna head out,” he says to Novak. He winds his way through the other diners and deposits the trays in the rack, nodding at the server’s breathless thanks. Novak’s hot on his heels as he heads to the elevator.

The same family from before get into the elevator too, but this time they seem more comfortable, responding to Dean’s brief nod of recognition with smiles. He catches sight of a paper clutched by the dad, the headline screaming WINCHESTER COMES OUT and the sub-heading REVEALS HE'S FOR THE BOYS. Not the best pun ever. Well, could’ve been worse, they could’ve riffed on “bender”; he’d heard that one a lot on the ice.

The elder boy grabs the paper from his dad and holds it out shyly. “Um, would you mind signing this please Mr Winchester?”

Dean looks at him quizzically. “Sure thing. You wouldn’t rather I signed something less, uh…”

“Overt?” suggests Novak with a small smirk.

“No, th-this is great,” the kid stutters. “I’m uh, um... “ He takes a deep breath and flushes even redder. “I’mgayandIjustwantedtosaythankyouforcomingoutandit’sokaythatyoudiditafterretirementitstillmeansalot.”

The dad rolls his eyes fondly, and the mom is smiling at her son; the younger brother is laughing at his embarrassment just like Sam used to laugh at him. And still does, sometimes.

“What’s your name?” Dean says, pulling out a sharpie from his pocket. Always carries one on him for this stuff. Sometimes he draws dicks on random posters too, because it’s funny.

“Kieran. K I E R A N.”

Dean takes the paper and prints carefully on it. “To Kieran, always be proud of who you are, and remember you are not alone,” he reads out. Prints his name and signs it with his usual illegible scrawl, handing it back to Kieran with a smile and a wink.

The kid flushes again but is beaming now, and the parents murmur their thanks and appreciation as he and Novak get out on their floor. Dean smiles happily at them all and strolls down the corridor. Charlie’d said he’d get moments like this, and he’d need to stock them up against the bigotry he’d inevitably be faced with as well. So he revels in it for a while, nodding at Novak and swaggering to his room.

He puts his skates and gym bag by the door, rolling a waterproof bandage over his knee; might need to shower again if the rink is clear enough to do some serious work. Now the worst of the rehab is out of the way it feels good to be able to spend time on the ice again, just skating around and enjoying the feel of it, and if he wants to go into training at any point he’s gotta keep his hand in.

An old episode of Dr Sexy is on one of the big cable channels and he settles in to wait for C - for Novak. He flushes guiltily at the thought of jacking off over him earlier. Should’ve stuck to Dr Sexy and Hot Intern 5 as usual. Thinking about someone he can't have will make it all the worse when they go their separate ways.

A knock on the door interrupts him and he scrambles for the remote as Novak comes in. “Dr Sexy, MD? Really?”

“It’s a great show,” Dean starts defensively, before he remembers that he’s not pretending to be straight. “Plus Dr Sexy is all kinds of hot.”

“I prefer my men less aggressively heterosexual. Shall we go?” Dean nods and follows him down the corridor, remembering to switch the TV off and lock the door behind him like a proper adult.

The pimpmobile is as garish as Dean remembers, and he sits in the passenger seat with a wince. Novak rolls his eyes at his grumbling, but he tunes the radio to a classic rock station and soon Dean’s happily mouthing along to AC/DC. When they reach Cain’s lot, he jumps out to check on Baby straight away, just in case any of those jackasses have touched her again, but she seems fine, no new scratches and no let-down tires.

Novak laughs at his caution but he sobers up when Dean describes what was done to Baby as they head into the building. “That’s awful, Dean. I’ve had my share of long-shots in the past, but nothing like that.”

“Charlie got them charged with property damage and they never tried it again, but there were a lot of good pics of me screaming at the guys who did it. Got a lot of sympathy for it being Dad’s car though, so there was no major media backlash.”

Novak frowns but stays quiet, and they make their way to the locker rooms at a nod from Cain. “Early morning crowd have just left, rink’s yours for a couple hours if you want it,” he says. “I’ve got bookings from midday onwards though so I’d clear out by then unless you want to get mobbed.”

There’s only one person in the locker room, who gapes starry-eyed at Novak and ignores Dean completely. He’s happy with that, and he straps himself up and ties his laces in peace, leaving Novak to her tender mercies; he throws a wink at him as he leaves, can’t help it, seeing the grumpy look on his face is funny as hell.

It takes Novak another five minutes to escape and hit the ice himself, and he glares at Dean’s snort of laughter. “You have your fans, I have mine,” he says haughtily. “They require different things of me than yours do of you.”

“Dude, she wanted in your pants.”

“Did she?” Novak still looks adorable when he’s confused, head tipped and face scrunched up.

“Yeah,” Dean laughs. “She was doing the hair thing and she couldn’t stop staring at your ass.”

Novak tries to look at it himself and spins slowly round in a little circle. “I don’t see what’s so special about it.”

Dean just snorts and shakes his head, appreciating the view himself. “Yeah, right. You want company or you wanna do some fancy-pants figure skating stuff? I was just planning on doing a few laps.”

“I would appreciate your company,” Novak replies, and they keep pace together. He stays quiet though, and Dean doesn’t know how to breech the yawning chasm of fifteen years without a clear topic of conversation so he keeps quiet himself, listening to the sound of their blades cutting crisply across the ice.

“Dean, I want to apologise to you properly,” Novak says abruptly, disturbing the peace Dean has managed to find in the silence.

“Huh?” he replies. Smooth as always.

“For being angry with you. It was… unworthy of me to stay angry with you for so long, and to refuse contact with you when you offered olive branches. I should not have done so and I want you to know that I feel ashamed of myself. I hope you can forgive me.”

Dean looks at him in confusion. “Why are you apologising to me for being angry at something I did to you? I was the one who cut you out, man. You had every right to be angry with me.”

“At the time, yes, but I kept hold of that anger when I should have been able to move past the hurt of a teenager and see the situation with adult eyes. I did not.”

“It’s fine, Cas. You’re forgiven.”

“No, you don’t…” Cas sighs and turns towards him, skating backwards effortlessly. “I hated that you used to watch me skate. Hated you, at the time. And I used that anger to spur myself to greater success in competitions. Even once I left here, and you were no longer watching me, I used to imagine your presence so I would skate more brilliantly, to prove to you that I was better off without you.”

“Oh. Huh.” Dean blinks. “I figured you hated me watching by the way you kept glaring at me, but I couldn’t stop, sorry.”

“No, please don’t apologise for trying to support me the only way you could,” Cas replies heatedly. “And your presence did help me. I would never have been picked up by Mikhael if you hadn’t been watching that day. I had never performed a triple in competition, I had barely managed to land one at all up until then, but under your eyes I could not let myself fail, and he saw that determination in me and signed me on the spot. I have you to thank for my whole career.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help then,” Dean says with a wry smile.

“I saw you at the Olympics as well,” Cas continues, quietly now. “I wasn’t the favourite, I was behind after the short program, but I looked out and saw you standing there. And it was - I wasn’t angry with you by then, but I still wanted to prove to you how well I could do.”

“You skated like you were flying,” Dean remembers. “Seemed like the ice could barely keep hold of you when you jumped, and you were so beautiful out there my heart broke all over again.” Shit, did he just say that? Shitshitshit. He feels his face light up, but he’s tongue-tied as Kieran now and can’t think of a thing to say to cover up the slip.

Cas either missed it or he’s politely ignoring it, though. “I skated for you, and won the gold. Do you know how many elements I had to change on the fly to get the points?”

“Five,” Dean answers automatically, and Cas huffs a laugh.

“Yes. You really did follow my career, didn’t you?”

“Dude, I got you bookmarked on YouTube,” Dean admits. Wow, scary stalker much; Dean flushes all over again.

Novak shakes his head in wonder, returning to Dean's side, and they skate in silence again for a while until he clears his throat again. “I owe you thanks as well, Dean, for everything that you did to protect me while we were here. I spoke to Ash when I was researching some things for the autobiography, and he said you had kept the hockey players from bullying me.”

“Well, as much as I could, yeah. Couldn’t stop Coach Walker from being a dick though.” Walker had been a hard ass on the rink, always pushing his kids to their limits, and he hated the figure skating kids with a passion, especially the boys. Raging homophobe, too.

“We were all warned about him and the adults protected us as much as they could. They couldn't stop the other children, though. You did that. So thank you for protecting me even though I never knew you did so at the time.”

Dean's blushing fiery red yet again. “Wasn't allowed to actually be your friend, but I still liked you, and I didn't want you to get hurt because the guys were douchebags. 'Sides, we all knew Walker was an ass. I managed to persuade them it was a way to say “fuck you” to him without actually saying it.” Plus he'd punched Luke in the kidneys so hard he pissed blood for a week, and that kind of violence got respect. Cas probably didn't need to know that though.

“You weren't allowed?” Cas repeated, swinging around to look at him again.

“Uh, yeah, Dad told me if he didn't stop seeing you he'd tell Walker I was gay.” Dean flushed again. “He thought I'd stop being gay if I stopped hanging out with you. Took him a while to come to terms with it, much as he ever did, I guess.”

Please don't let him ask about it, please don't let him ask about it... “Why did he blame me? Because I was a figure skater?” Crap.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. He's so red he's pretty sure he's gonna melt a hole in the ice. “No. Well, maybe that too, I dunno. But uh, he knew I liked you. Liked you liked you. Overheard Sam ribbing me about it, I think. So he thought if I wasn't seeing you I'd get over the crush, and it would just be a phase.” Hadn't worked. Either the getting over the crush part or the phase part.

Cas is blushing now, fainter than Dean but it's there. “I see.”

Dean's not sure that he does see, not really, or he'd be horrified. If Dean's horny the day after matches now, as an adult, it has nothing on his teenage years, and he'd taken every opportunity to rub one out over Cas. Sometimes when the guy was in the shower next to him.

“I wish I'd known that you were just following your father's wishes,” Cas says softly. “It would have made it easier.”

“Don't put all the blame on him, I went along with it.” Dean scowls in disgust at himself. “Didn't want me to be gay any more'n he did. I blamed you for it for a while. Made it easier to stop talking to you. Couldn't stay angry at you for long, though, 'cause I realised I'd have to be angry at Harrison Ford too, plus a whole bunch of other people, and I couldn't do that.”

“I didn't have those problems in coming to terms with my own sexuality, but I had support from my family and friends. It must have been so hard for you, Dean, I'm so sorry.” The compassion in those blue eyes is enough to make Dean slightly lost in them, and he has to force himself to look away.

“Water under the bridge. Thanks, though. For understanding.”

They skate on, silent again, but it's companionable now rather than awkward with the air between them finally cleared. Dean feels lighter than he has done for years. Maybe Benny's right, and he does deserve forgiveness and understanding. Maybe his crimes were never as bad as he believed them to be. Maybe he didn't burn his bridges long ago.

His knee starts to give him warning signs and he slows down, stretching and running through some cool-down. Cas follows his lead. “This was really good,” Dean says with a smile. “We should do this again some time.”

“We should, yes,” Cas agrees.

“I, uh... I really missed being friends with you. I'd like that back. If you would, I mean.” He tries not to betray how hopeful he is, and he's embarrassed to admit even to himself how much courage it took him to even say the words.

Cas purses his lips. “Well, that might be a problem,” he says softly. “I don't think I could cope with being friends with you.”

Dean's heart goes from his mouth to his boots in no time at all. “Oh. Okay. That's – that's fine. I don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything. I'll get out of your hair.” He's having to try hard not to cry right now, like the kid he secretly thinks he still is on the inside. Looks like Benny was wrong after all.

“Not like that, Dean,” Cas says exasperatedly, and it's enough to stop Dean in his tracks. “I see winning your Stanley Cup did nothing for your poor self-esteem.” He glides closer to Dean, who's gaping in confusion right now, totally lost. “I meant that I wouldn't be able to cope with only being friends. I very much enjoy your company, I find you very attractive, and I am interested in pursuing you romantically and sexually. Is that something you would be interested in too?”

Dean literally can't think of a single word to speak right now, but he can't leave Cas hanging, so he surges forward, takes Cas's face in his hands, and kisses him.

Finally, after all these years, he's kissing Cas, and he'd cheer if he wasn't busy trying to memorise the taste and feel of his lips. It lasts forever. It's over far too soon. He keeps it clean and gentle, gotta be a gentleman and not fuck this up, not after everything he's gone through to get to this point.

Cas has other ideas. He smiles giddily at Dean, the full on nose scrunching grin he remembers, and then Cas is on him so hard they drift back and Dean's grateful for the barrier. His hands are running down Dean's sides and over his hair, and he's not sure who opened their mouth first but he's getting some tongue action and it's good. Really good. Perfect, really.

This time the kiss lasts for long enough that they both have to break away to breathe. “So, that's a yes, then,” Cas says slowly, “Just to be clear.” His hands are tight on Dean's waist, like he's afraid Dean's gonna run off.

“Yeah, it's a yes. Guess we got some stuff to talk through though.”

“Don't care right now. More kissing.” And Cas dives right back in, like he's honest-to-god thirsty for Dean or something, and Dean's just as parched for him. This amazing, brilliant man, in his arms, on the very ice he'd fallen in love with him for the first time so many years ago; Dean surreptitiously pinches himself, just to make sure it's not some concussion dream.

One of them, he's not sure which, is making little breathy moans every so often. He works out it's him when they stop as he kisses his way down to the hollow of Cas's throat, but they're replaced with a groan from Cas and a new pressure against his leg and Cas breaks off with a gasp.

Dean's voice is shaky. “Your room or mine?”

“Showers. Now.” Damn but Cas is demanding when he's horny. Just the way Dean likes it, if he's honest, and he's starting to plump up a bit in his pants himself.

“Hotel's not that far, you know.” Dean lets himself be dragged off the ice anyway, Cas barely giving them enough time to put their blade protectors on.

“Dean. Having you in the showers here has been a fantasy of mine since puberty hit. I am not going to miss the opportunity now we have it.” Cas's voice is lower than normal and his eyes are dark.

Dean's well on the way to fully hard now and he licks his lips and nods. “You make a pretty good argument there, Cas.”

“We should have plenty of time before anyone else comes in. And if not, we'll just have to be quiet.”

And now he's all the way hard and his dick is complaining about being inside his pants. Dean suppresses a small whimper and walks as fast as he can back to the changing rooms, which are – thank fuck – totally empty. “So, you wanted me back then too?”

Cas barks out a laugh. “Yes. Very much. You were my sexual awakening.”

“You were mine too,” Dean replies softly, and they're kissing again, less desperately before but just as sweet.

They strip each other carefully, with lingering looks and gentle touches, no wild tearing of clothes or popping of buttons. Cas drops to the ground to unfasten Dean's knee brace, and Dean doesn't think anyone has ever undressed him with such care; his former partners were always hungry for his strength, caring little about being cautious of his injuries. He doesn't let Cas take off the waterproof support though.

Cas licks his lips at the sight of Dean's cock once it's finally free of his briefs but makes no move to touch it, pulling his own briefs down instead. His dick is as beautiful as the rest of him; a good size, small curve to the right, foreskin starting to pull back to reveal the head, flushed deep pink and slightly glistening.

“God I want to taste that,” Dean says out loud, no filter on his mouth at all, and Cas laughs at him and dances out of reach, grabbing a shower bad and their towels.

“Come get me, then,” he says, and Dean grins and follows. Cas's ass looks even better naked than it does clothed; Dean can see all of his dancer's muscles flexing and he licks his own lips and suppresses a groan as his cock jerks all by itself.

Cas takes the cubicle Dean was in yesterday; it's the best one, the biggest by quite a long way, although it's still a cramped fit with both of them in it. The water runs hot over them as they look at each other in silence and wonder.

Looks like Cas is afraid to make the first move as well, which is enough to make Dean less afraid; if they're both nervous, he doesn't have to be ashamed of his fear. He reaches out a hand to Cas's neck to pull him in for another long kiss, his other hand resting lightly on Cas's hip.

Cas runs both of his hands up and down Dean's back, slowly drifting lower and lower until they're on his ass, and with a moan he starts pulling Dean in close, dicks sliding together. Dean has to break the kiss to take a shuddering breath in, tipping his head back to get more air, and Cas is on his neck in a flash, nipping and gently biting his way down one side and back up the other.

Dean moans and it echoes through the room, and he'd be more worried about the noise if Cas didn't have his hand on Dean's cock. His hips buck forward and he grunts; Cas keeps his touch light and exploratory but this ain't gonna take long at this rate, Dean's more turned on right now than he can remember being in a long time. Maybe ever.

Cas gives him another long kiss and then pulls back and scowls. “No condoms?” Dean shakes his head, trembling with desire, but he can't really blame himself for lack of planning when he never thought this could happen at all.

Cas bites his lips and Dean watches him breathlessly, moving in for another kiss, but Cas pulls back with a grin and drops to his knees again, kissing a trail down Dean's stomach and hovering teasingly over his cock before he puts his lips round Dean and starts sucking. Hot and warm and wet, Cas feels amazing around Dean's dick. His hands are on Cas's head before he knows it, not tight but he really needs something to hold right now, needs the illusion of control.

One of those graceful hands is pumping Dean's shaft in time with the movement, and he moans out loud, “Oh god, Cas, yes,” when he feels the other hand pressing hard at the bulge of his taint, as engorged as his cock is right now.

Blue eyes look up at him and Dean warns, “Not gonna take long, I'm nearly there,” but Cas just nods briefly and keeps going, moving faster and sucking harder; Dean's got one hand over his own mouth now trying to quieten his moans, but they keep slipping through, and he's so damn close, this is too much and not enough at the same time, he might actually die from this.

A finger presses into his ass gently and that's what he was waiting for apparently, because he starts coming with a jerk of his hips he can't stop and a muffled shout of “Cas!” again. It's so intense that his knees start to buckle and it's only Cas's strength that keep his upright, hands bracing him quickly as his mouth, oh god that mouth, keeps milking the rest of the orgasm from him.

Dean slides down the wall and sits on the lip of tiling with a stupid blissed out grin on his face and shaking hands. His cock's still twitching a little, doesn't want to stop, but it doesn't have a say in the matter.

Cas is wiping spit off his mouth and laughing gently at him, water running over his face. “You look beautiful right now,” he says softly.

Dean manages to focus on him, but it's an effort still. “No, you,” he manages. He blinks hard and tries to get his body under control. “Shit, I think you literally blew my brains out,” he says admiringly.

“You're welcome,” Cas says smugly. Dean glances down and he's still red and hard and tantalisingly close. No way can Dean get on his knees, he's quite fond of the kneecaps he has left, but there's another possibility, and he pulls Cas's arms up and makes him stand, capturing a lingering kiss on the way.

“My turn,” he murmurs, and Cas moans as Dean captures his balls and starts playing with them.

“You don't have to, Dean, it's fine,” he starts, but Dean cuts him off by tightening his grip and glaring up at him.

“Cas. I jerked off in this exact cubicle about a thousand times to the thought of getting my hands and lips on your dick. I ain't stopping this unless Cain comes in here and makes me, and honestly, not sure I would then.”

Cas is staring at him with lust-blown eyes, and his dick just jumped in front of Dean, so he must've said something right. He strokes it a few times, marvelling at the silky feel of it, the way it feels hot and heavy and perfect in his hands, and then starts licking. Just tastes, at first, little teasing licks that have Cas cursing and clutching his shoulders. He shudders when Dean flattens his tongue over the top, and when he finally slips his lips around him and starts flicking his tongue over Cas's frenulum as he sucks Cas groans long and loud.

Been a while since Dean's gone down on anyone, but it's like riding a bike. Anything that has Cas groaning or clutching him hard, he does again, over and over until Cas is panting out moans on every breath and his grip on Dean's shoulder is almost painful. It's hard keeping his balance on the tiny lip though, and he's never been able to deep-throat, and shit, now he's thinking about all the ways he's not good at this. Cas seems to be enjoying it though, even if Dean's technique is shit.

Dean's always been of the opinion that guys do to other guys what they like having done to themselves, so he massages the hardened area behind Cas's balls – gets an extra loud moan for that and makes a mental note for later – and scoops up some saliva to coat his finger before going in for Cas's rim. Where the pubes on his balls and at the base of his cock have been neatly trimmed, the ones on his ass have been recently waxed, and the skin is soft and warm and welcoming as Dean slides his finger carefully in.

Cas chokes out something in Polish and does what Dean did earlier, muffling himself on his fist, as Dean does the best multi-tasking he's managed all month, struggling to keep the rhythm of his mouth and other hand going while he proceeds cautiously with the fingering. Turns out that having thick fingers is good for something though, and Cas starts twitching helplessly backwards and forwards, clearly trying to control his thrusts so Dean isn't hurt.

He looks up at Cas's face through his eyelashes, protected from the spray of the shower by Cas's body, and it's a beautiful sight. Cas's face and neck are flushed, his nipples standing in hard peaks, and his eyes are clenched shut as he he moans into his hand. It sounds suspiciously like please, actually, and Dean redoubles his efforts, getting the rhythm perfect, and he's rewarded with a hoarse cry, a probably-bruised shoulder, and the bitter taste of come hitting the back of his throat as Cas clenches around his finger hard.

Dean winds down carefully, slipping his finger out and licking Cas's cock clean of excess saliva – not like it matters much in the shower, but it's the thought that counts. Cas is breathing hard and shaking slightly, leaning on the wall for support, and his face is radiant with the afterglow, looking at Dean like he's some kind of miracle.

“That was amazing,” Cas says, voice rough.

Dean blushes. “You're welcome.” His voice is hoarse and he massages his jaw, winking up at Cas and pressing another kiss to his lovely cock. He can't wait to have it inside him, and he says as much, making it twitch and try to re-harden as Cas swears at him and laughs.

They wash each other – they keep reminding themselves that there are going to be more people in the locker room soon, but they both linger over their touches on the other's skin. By the time they're completely clean, Dean's starting to harden again, but he smacks Cas's hand away when he starts to stroke him with purpose.

“Hotel, Cas. We got the rest of the day.”

Cas pouts. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Only because the water's getting cold, though.”

It is at that, which is a sign of how long they've been in there. Dean rolls his eyes at Cas and steps out of the shower, drying himself quickly on his waiting towel. Cas does the same; his hair stands up like crazy and it's both the funniest and the cutest thing Dean's ever seen.

There are other people in the changing rooms now, and they keep the touching and giddy smiling to a minimum. They move like a well-oiled team though; Dean reaches out and Cas hands him the thing he was looking for, Dean tosses a bottle to Cas and he snatches it from the air without looking. It's like what he had with the Stars, that sense that you know what another person is doing and how they need, but it'd taken months to build up with them.

Although... he and Cas had been friends for, what, eight years back in the day? The only surprising part is that, now, they're adults. But if Dean really thinks about it, they'd both been trained in adult movement for a long time when they were kids. Different bodies and shapes, but the building blocks were there. It's why kids are trained at all, really.

So it's not some freaky (and not awesome at all) soul-mate thing. Damnit.

Someone moves sharply in Dean's peripheral vision and swings a bag too close to his head, and Dean goes from relaxed to tense in no time at all. He flinches back out of the way; his knee tenses abruptly, braced for an impact that never comes.

He tries to blink away the grey swirling around his vision but it's too late and he sits down hard, shaking now, breathing fast and shallow and echoing in his ears. He's crashing hard and he fumbles for a glucose tablet with cold and clumsy fingers; can't find them, shit, the next step is puking or passing out and neither of those is fun.

A warm hand grasps his and the tablets appear is his grasp. He eats a couple quickly and rests his clammy head in his trembling hands. He hears Cas shooing people away. “He'll be fine, it's a minor medical issue that is well in hand. Thank you for your concern. Enjoy your skate.”

Shit this is embarrassing. Bad enough that he couldn't stay upright after he came, now he's spooked by shadows and nearly fainting? What a catch he is. Awesome display of healthy red-blooded male right there.

He accepts Cas's hand to get back up once the weakness passes, but brushes off his concern. “Thanks, man, I'm good now. Let's get outta here.” There's concern and frustration in Cas's face and Dean can't look at him for long.

Cain's not on duty when they leave, and the parking lot is mercifully clear of paps, and Dean climbs into Baby with a sigh of relief. She's the one constant in his life right now, has been for years, and just being behind the wheel is enough to make him feel safe and secure again. He follows Cas back.

He's gonna have to talk to him, Dean knows, about how they're going to work this thing – assuming Cas even still wants to after Dean's little display back there – and Dean'll probably have to come clean about why he reacted that way. Cas isn't nosy like Sam, but the worried look hadn't left his face during the walk to their cars, and Dean's not so selfish as to let Cas worry for the sake of his own pride and privacy.

He hates talking about this shit though. Benny's the only one who knows about it properly; he's managed to keep it from Sam only because it hasn't happened in front of him. Cas deserves better than that. And then, well, if he wants to walk away Dean won't blame him.

Dean's thoughts are still dark when they reach the underground lot, but Cas smiles shyly at him when their fingers touch in the elevator, and it's enough to warm him inside. They walk to Cas's room close enough that Dean can smell his shower gel on Cas. Makes him grin to realise it.

Down the corridor though he can spot Charlie sitting cross-legged in front of Dean's door, typing fast on her laptop. She spots them and waves frantically. Dean frowns. “Looks like I gotta take a raincheck,” he murmurs.

“I'll wait,” Cas promises, and with a last secret caress of Dean's hand he slips into his room. Dean trudges down the corridor and scowls at Charlie.

“Bela had to reschedule, so you're getting interviewed over lunch in the restaurant downstairs,” she explains hastily. “I'm sorry, Dean, but you know we need this.”

Shit. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles. “Why are you sitting out here?”

“Best way to be sure you couldn't sneak away,” Charlie shrugs. Dean scowls more but she's caught him out more than once.

“Do I gotta change or is this okay?”

Charlie looks him over and bites her lip in consideration. “Nah, that's fine. Active is good.”

“Okay,” he sighs in defeat. “You coming with?”

She nods, and he helps her up. At least he's still strong enough that he can pick up Charlie without straining himself. No-one stops them on the way; Dean's face is set and dark, he can feel the tension in his jaw, and Charlie gives apologetic smiles to anyone who looks like they might be approaching him. Word's getting out that he's here, clearly.

Bela has claimed a comfortable breakfast nook in front of a large window, with big chairs and low tables. She'll have done it because he's more likely to spill if he feels at ease, of course, but it's private, and the chairs will provide Dean with some measure of protection from any stares he's on the receiving end of.

She nods to him as he sits down. “Dean. Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice.”

“No problem,” Dean replies. Charlie's already set up his order, and there's a smiling waiter with a pot of tea (Bela), a giant coffee (Charlie) and a smoothie of some kind at his side within seconds of being seated.

“So, yesterday was unexpected,” Bela starts brightly. “Why now?”

“In general? Thought I'd get the big shock out of the way before the book release. Right now as opposed to when I was still playing? It's all in the book. Some of it was me not being ready, some of it was outside pressure from people, and a lot of it has to do with homophobia in sports generally. No way I'd've had the career I did if I'd been out.”

“That certainly seems to be true, given what various managers and coaches are saying about you now.” She 's not trying to get a rise out of him, but it's still hard to hear. “So all of those women on your arms were just, what, your beards?”

Dean shrugs. “Some of them knew. Most of them didn't. I didn't make them all sign NDAs or anything, it all sort of happened organically.” He was still friends with all of the women who had consented to being in a “relationship” with him, at least, and they supported his decision to come out now; he wasn't worried about what any of them would say to the press. The random “dates” were a different matter, of course, but, well, he couldn't control that.

The food starts arriving, but Bela hardly lets up in her questioning. Charlie's silent presence helps Dean get through it, but it's still hard. Most of the questions are about stuff Dean's been keeping secret for huge chunks of his life, and breaking that silence is really difficult.

By the time Dean's healthy-but-quirky (thanks to Charlie) lunch is down to swirls of balsamic vinegar and sad, limp pieces of lettuce, Bela seems to be winding down and he starts to relax. Big mistake. She might be in his corner – and she genuinely does seem to be – but she's still a journalist, and cutting people to the quick to get a good story is just something she does.

“So, one last question, Dean – there are a couple of rumours going around that your career-ending fight was motivated by homophobia. Is there anything you can say about that?”

Dean's bad knee twitches and he can't stop himself from running a hand over his nose, a nervous tic left over from when the nerves were still misfiring. “Well, first off, it wasn't career-ending, I'm still better than a lot of people. My contract was nearly up, and I decided not to pursue any more. We turned down more than one good offer. So as brutal as it looked, they didn't end my career, whatever they might claim.

“As to anything else, there were always rumours about me, like you said, and those guys knew about them, and they definitely tried to get under my skin when we were playing with various slurs and jabs. I didn't let it get to me, and eventually they decided to up the ante. You'd have to ask them if they hated me more because I was gay or because we were kicking their ass, though.”

His knee's itching now, and his hands are starting to tremble; he keeps them firmly on his lap. Bela's watching him closely. “I understand you went through several rounds of surgery and an intensive physio routine just to get back on your feet. So says the rumour mill, at least.”

“Well, the rumour mill is wrong, like usual. I had some surgery on my knee to put a couple pins in, and I had a couple of surgeries on my face to keep me looking pretty.” Dean gives Bela his best Blue Steel. “There was some physio, yeah, but my knee was already bad, it was nothing new to me.”

“From the fall a few years ago? Just how many injuries are you carrying, Dean?”

“Enough to make retiring seem like a good idea, not enough that I can't skate any more. You saw me yesterday. You know what game I do or don't have.” It takes a lot of effort not to snap at her. “We done, or do you have another one last question?” He's bouncing his good knee now, trying to focus on the sensation and keeping his blood flowing.

“I'll let you off the hook,” she says. “Thank you for your time, Dean, I know you hate these. And, for what it's worth, I think you did a great job yesterday. It meant a lot to those kids. And it was good to see you enjoying yourself on the ice again.”

Charlie gives him the nod, and he's off like a rocket, weaving his way through the restaurant and focussing on getting upstairs and into his room. By the time he hits the elevator he's breathing hard with the effort of not showing any signs of weakness, holding himself rigid against the shaking, every step with his left leg a gamble.

He's back in his room and curled up on his bed before he remembers that he's supposed to be meeting Cas, but he's deep in flashback now, his heart is racing and he's trembling and afraid, waiting for the next blow to fall, and it takes a lot of energy to write even one text message.  
“Sorry Cas something's come up today and I got to cancel. Catch you later.”

He thinks his phone buzzes a couple of times after that, but he's riding the edge of this hard. Benny had warned him this thing would probably happen at some point on this trip, so he's got some stuff in place to deal with it, but it's hard to tell himself that it's okay to be vulnerable when he's in a foetal position and trying to protect his face and knee from the memory of pain.

Eventually, he gets under control enough to breathe normally and relax his body. The usual joints and muscles are painfully stiff, and he works slowly through some stretches to try to loosen them off; he doesn't want to be addicted to painkillers, it was hard enough kicking codeine the first couple of rounds of surgery. That, and he doesn't want to be any more of a cliché than he already is.

He can't bring himself to leave his bed, though. It's soft and safe, and he drifts for a time in a cloud of washed-out nothingness as his body struggles to rebalance its electrolytes and brain chemical stuff. Things. Whatever.

A knock on his door rouses him from his not-quite-nap. “Go away, Charlie, I'm done for today,” he growls, although he has to clear his throat a couple times and he's pretty sure he sounds stuffed up.

The door opens a crack. “It's not Charlie. Can I come in?”

Shit shit shit, Cas was not supposed to see him like this. “Uh, yeah, gimme a sec,” Dean starts, but Cas is inside before he can start moving.

“Dean? Are you alright?” The room's not that big, and Cas is kneeling down at his side almost as soon as the door's closed. “What's wrong?” His eyes are filled with worry and he runs a careful hand over Dean's forehead, smoothing back his hair.

Dean's never felt so exposed in his life, and he closes his eyes like a kid, trying to hide by not seeing. Still, this is probably for the best. He'll say the words, and then Cas'll leave him alone, and that'll be that.

“I, uh. I have PTSD. From the attack. And I get these... attacks sometimes. Flashbacks or whatever. So then I... just need to do this for a while.”

There's a sharp in-drawn breath, a whisper of Polish, and then Cas is moving away. Well. That's that, then. Just like Dean thought: he's too broken to be a catch.

But all he does is go to the mini-bar and get something, and then he climbs onto the bed behind Dean and reaches over him to put the something on the table. Dean cracks open an eyelid to see a bottle of water, looking cool and ridiculously tempting.

“Can I hold you? Is that okay?” Cas asks softly.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, and Cas slides an arm in the gap between his shoulder and the pillow, and puts his other arm around Dean's waist, and does just that.

Dean's tense to begin with but it fades pretty quick. The only sound from Cas is his breathing, and being wrapped in strong arms is, well, Dean's always been a fan of that.

It doesn't take long before the water lures him into a more upright position, but he's a lot more relaxed now. He meets Cas's gaze shyly. “Um. Thanks. For, uh, that.”

Cas stretches out easily, t-shirt riding up deliciously, and smiles back. “I'm glad you're recovering. You should drink, though.” He sits up gracefully into an easy cross-legged position.

Dean definitely needs water, so he cracks open the bottle and drinks about half of it in one long gulp. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Cas watch him do it, then flush and look away. He breaks off from drinking. “Dude, I already sucked your cock once today, you're allowed to look,” he grins. “You want me to do it again? More slowly, maybe?”

Cas always was an easy blusher, and the shade of his cheeks is a lovely thing to see. It brings out the blue of his eyes even more. “I remember it from earlier,” he replies haughtily, trying to look as dignified as possible. Then his face softens and he looks at Dean seriously, tipping his head. “You don't need to tell me anything, but if you want to talk, I'll listen,” he says. “Or if there's anything else you want me to do.”

Dean scrubs his face with his hands, slightly wet from the condensation on the bottle. He doesn't think he was crying, but his eyes are almost certainly red, and the water feels good. “Not really much else left to say, to be honest. You know the bones of it. The, uh, the blood-sugar thing is part of it. My therapist thinks it might be affecting my knee, as well, it took a lot longer to get into a decent condition than it should've, and it gets worse when I'm more stressed. My face is mostly fine now.”

Cas reaches up and runs a gentle hand over the faint scarring on Dean's nose, and over his lips. “It certainly looks it.” Dean leans lightly into the touch, couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to, and brushes a kiss into Cas's palm.

“Inside scars didn't heal so well, though. You, uh, you still want in on this? Even though I'm kind of a mess?”

Cas rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses him good and long, tasting of some sweet fruit and leaving him feeling more refreshed than the water had done. “Of course I'm still in. For as long as you'll have me.”

“And you're sure I'm not some, what was it, unsuitable replacement for an absent father?” Dean gives a shit-eating grin at Cas's full-body shudder at that.

“Absolutely not. And please never say that again. Ever.”

“Okay, daddy roleplay off the table, got it,” Dean shoots back, earning a wrinkled nose and an embarrassed flush. He kisses Cas again, and then gets up with a long stretch. Cas watches him unabashed this time, biting his lip a little, and oh, that's where this is going, right.

Well. First things first. “Gotta go powder my nose. You still gonna be here when I get back?”

Cas smiles at him and stretches out on the bed. “Your bed is nicer than mine.” He squirms around a little, making himself more comfortable, and Dean's really hoping he restocked his toiletry bag before he came here because god fucking damn the man is sex incarnate.

Freshening up takes a little time, Dean's hygiene rituals don't quite tip over into full disorder levels but Benny's lectured him on it being a potentially dangerous method of controlling his environment, so he just takes a piss and washes his face, junk, and ass. Three showers in one day seems excessive when he's not training.

But, thanks past Dean, there's a small bottle of lightly scented hypoallergenic lube and a strip of condoms in his bag, and he slips them into his pocket with a nervous smile to himself in the mirror and leaves the en-suite.

Cas is typing on his phone. “Balthazar wants to up the date on outing me,” he says without even looking up. “He says that there's already speculation about us so we might as well do it sooner rather than later. I was wondering... would you like to go to dinner with me tonight? Fong's, maybe?”

“On a – like a date?”

“Yes. As long as you want to.” Cas gives him a timid smile. “If it's too soon then that's fine too.” He's worrying at his lip again, but in a nervous way rather than a hungry way.

“Well, sure,” Dean replies. “I mean, I kind of figured we would eventually, you know? When you were ready to be out.”

“Please, I've been ready to be out for years, it's just that all of those denials that Bart made me make made it a little... awkward. There's a lot of homophobia in figure skating as well, you know. We just keep it better hidden than you hockey types do.”

“Well, I guess when society still is, it bleeds into everything. Even wearing sparkly leotards.” Cas rolls his eyes at that, and Dean sits down beside him, left knee stretched out. “What'll we do until dinner, then?”

“I can think of a few things,” Cas breathes, and pulls Dean in for another searing kiss, long fingers trailing down his sides and under his shirt. He pulls back abruptly. “Are you sure this is okay? I'm not taking advantage of your emotionally vulnerable state, am I?”

“Don't treat me like a precious princess,” Dean growls. “I got a couple triggers, but none of them are sex. If you wanna stop, fine, I'll just jack off again.” He's hard again already, his dick giving its all for Team CasDean, and his balls have that sweet ache that says that they're not going to be satisfied with him waiting his erection out.

“Again? You mean the shower wasn't enough for you?” Cas is biting his lip again and his eyes are dark.

“No, the shower was amazing. But I, uh, I jerked off after swimming. Literally couldn't've stopped if I wanted to. You looked, god, you looked incredible.”

Cas groans and rubs the heel of his hand into his crotch. “You're trying to kill me,” he declares. “I'm going to die from being too turned on.”

“You really like the thought of me touching myself, huh?” Dean's watching for it and, yeah, Cas's eyes dilate even further at the thought. There's really only one thing he can do, with that knowledge in hand, and that's start running his fingers over his cock. “Ah- aaah,” he groans, “feels so good right now.” Cas is frozen still, eyes wide and fixed on Dean's hand.

If there's one thing Dean knows how to do, it's putting on a show for a crowd. He starts teasing himself in earnest, not bothering to try to disguise the whimpers and moans he makes. One hand's running constantly over his dick through the fabric of his sweat pants, the other is teasing a nipple in jerky little circles, and he groans as he starts rocking his hips.

It isn't until Dean murmurs, “Wish this was you, Cas” that Cas seems to remember he can move, and Dean's pinned to the bed before he even realises it.

“Decided to join in at last?” Dean asks with a wink. Cas kisses him in return, frantic with wanting, and grinds their dicks together with a fluid movement of his hips that has Dean moaning again.

“Please tell me you have a condom this time,” Cas says, trailing little bites down Dean's neck.

“Pock – ah, god, yes, there – pocket,” Dean gasps out, and Cas smiles and sets about removing their clothes, pulling out the condoms and lube and placing them carefully on the bedside table before sitting back and looking at Dean.

“How do you want this to go?” he asks. Dean's a little distracted by the sight of Cas's dick, just outside arm's reach, flushed and perfect and slightly gleaming at the tip, and Cas has to repeat himself. “Dean. Focus. What would you like to do?”

Dean manages to drag his eyes upwards, licking his kiss-swollen lips. “I want you to fuck me. Please. Unless, like, you hate it. Either way you're gonna have to do most of the work, though, sorry.” He gestures at his ruined knee with a scowl. “Don't think I can take point right now.”

Cas smiles. “I like being on top either way. But I am definitely on board with being inside you.” He runs a teasing finger up behind Dean's balls, and Dean shudders at the promise it contains. “First, though, can I take the bandage off? You've been wearing it for a long time, it can't be comfortable.”

“Uh, I guess, yeah. I gotta warn you though, it's pretty ugly.” Dean's eyes slide away from Cas's intent gaze and he returns to watching Cas's hands instead.

Those long and graceful fingers work carefully but inexorably on the latex of the bandage, and Cas concentrates on rolling it down and off of Dean's foot before looking at the knee. It's hugely discoloured, partly livid white and red where the bandage was digging into it, and partly deep reddish-purple from the built-up scarring. Several straight lines and white dots adorn it from the surgeries.

Dean's had past partners who have refused to look at it, saying it reminds them too much of raw meat, and he's antsy now as Cas remains silent. His leg jumps a little under the scrutiny. Dean's afraid to break the silence. His dick starts slowly deflating.

“Say something,” he whispers. “If you hate it too much I've got other bandages in the drawer.” Dean's used to hiding it. Used to hiding, period.

Cas's eyes shoot up to meet his, and his face is angry and offended. “Your knee is beautiful. You're beautiful. Who made you think that it was ugly?” He scowls at Dean's imaginary detractors – alright, real detractors who he is imagining – and traces the freshest scars with a delicate finger. “All scars mean is that you survived something that might have killed you.”

Dean's breath catches in his throat as Cas bends over – Jesus the flexibility of the man is incredible – and starts kissing the knee. The skin's lost sensitivity over the years, but the gesture is more than enough to make it really hot. And it's easing Dean's vanity no end.

Cas continues his way upwards, shifting into a less pretzel-y position as he does so, and waves a hand imperiously as he nears Dean's dick; Dean grabs the lube and hands it over. He doesn't start sucking Dean off again, but teases him with butterfly kisses all over and around his dick before he lifts Dean's good leg over his shoulder, watching him intently as he spreads lube over his fingers.

A nod from Dean and Cas smiles and slides the tip of his finger inside him. Dean lets out a half-moan, half-sigh at the feeling; this was what tipped him over the edge earlier, but it's only the prelude now. Cas keeps going, watching his face the entire time; the first finger goes in quickly enough, but he takes his time over the second, adding a little more lube, and by the time the he adds a third finger and starts flexing and scissoring them Dean's making little breathy sighs and moans with every movement, the muscles in his abdomen clenching at every flick over his prostate.

Another look, and Dean nods again, tearing a wrapper open carefully and reaching for Cas's cock. Cas shivers as Dean rolls the condom on, and then he lifts Dean's bad leg up over his shoulder too, and okay, it's been a while since Dean's been in this position but he's been working on his core flexibility recently so it's not as awkward as it could be, and with the knee held over his shoulder it's - 

Dean's thoughts cut off as Cas slides inside him in a long, slow glide that has Dean gasping and grabbing the covers. “Good?” Cas asks, a note of worry in his voice.

“Shit yes,” Dean moans, tipping his pelvis as much as he can to get Cas as deep as possible. Cas holds still for a moment before Dean growls at him. “Don't be a fuckin' tease.”

Cas raises an eyebrow but starts moving, slow and steady, and Dean's lost in the feel of it, his brain whiting out at every carefully angled thrust against his prostate. Cas, meanwhile, is looking at him with naked lust and adoration as he rolls his hips, and every moan from Dean is met by a gasp in return.

“Oh, I'm not – this is – oh, god, mmm,” and Dean's not sure what Cas means but he likes watching him fall apart. Cas speeds up, sweat gathering in the hollow of his neck, and Dean's moans are starting to sound more like grunts with every thrust Cas makes. “Touch yourself,” Cas says, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Please.”

“I know you – ah, oh, hnnh – like to watch,” Dean manages to get out, and he has to concentrate a little on moving his arm but once he touches his dick he's amazed he hasn't come yet, he's hard as granite and hot enough to melt through ice, pre-come running all over it. “Ah god! Mmm, yeah, Cas, please,” he babbles, barely able to move his hand.

His grip tightens spasmodically as Cas's thrusts get deeper, and Dean's pinned between that glorious, beautiful dick and his own hand, Cas's eyes wide and his mouth open and gasping. Dean can feel his balls tightening and his abdomen tensing as his orgasm rushes in, and with a last few strokes of his hand he's coming with a silent shout and a long sigh, head thrown back and back arching as streaks of come cover Cas's stomach and his own.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas sighs, and then he cries out as he comes, fingers gripping Dean so hard he'll have bruises. Good bruises. Cas slides out slowly, giving Dean enough time to adjust to the lack of him a little bit, and he ties off the condom and throws it vaguely in the direction of not-the-bed before he places Dean's legs tenderly on the bed again and then collapses beside him with an adorable fucked-out smile.

Dean's still panting and his fingers and toes are buzzing. He's got come on his stomach and a slow ache in his ass, and the sexiest man in the world lying next to him.

And a broken brain-to-mouth filter, apparently, because Cas blushes and kisses him deeply and long, tasting of sweat and sex and his delicious self. “That was wonderful,” he sighs, propping himself over Dean and brushing Dean's sweaty hair out of his forehead.

“We were awesome,” Dean agrees. “We should totally do that again some time.”

Cas nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, I have a dinner date, but I'm free after that if you want to pencil me in.”

“Pretty big pencil, Cas,” Dean grins, watching the blush rising across Cas's cheeks again. “Not sure I'm gonna be able to, to be honest,” he says reluctantly.

Cas draws a finger through a streak of come on Dean's stomach and tastes it thoughtfully, making Dean prove himself a liar as his dick jerks against his leg and surprising another choked moan from him. “Hmm. I suppose we'll have to practice,” Cas says seriously. “We are athletes, after all. We're good at sustained physical exertion, sudden bursts of speed, moments of high adrenaline...”

“...shooting into goals, performing on command, synchronised movements...”

He startles a laugh from Cas that turns into another prolonged make-out session. It's only broken when Dean's stomach rumbles, making him aware of the nearly-dry come as well as how hungry he is.

“Dinner?” he says with a smile.

“Let's,” Cas replies.

It's strange and fresh and new, and there are going to be a lot of challenges on the way, but Dean can't think of a better person to have at his side. He's struck by a sudden thought as he's pulling on his good pants and a clean shirt. “Hey, Cas? Could you teach me how to do some ice-dancing sometime?”

Cas looks at him and smiles. “Any time you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this came as a surprise to me. Not the initial idea but the next fifteen fucking thousand words of it. I did two things I have never done before for this fic: research ice hockey, and write porn. I hope I made less than or equal to the number of acceptable mistakes in both. I also hope that all of you people who read the first chapter and were disappointed at the lack of porn are happy now. (Just because it says Explicit doesn't mean that there's porn in *every* chapter. That way madness lies.)
> 
> Many thanks to [wobblyheadeddollcaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblyheadeddollcaper) for beta'ing two out of the three sex scenes. You are the master. I am but your apprentice.
> 
> Um, that's it. Usual tumblr link [here](http://knittedgauntlets.tumblr.com/). I like nerd things and I post retrospective analyses of my own work on there too, for the purposes of learning to write better and learn from my mistakes and, you know, pretentious literary wank.


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